


The Image of Perfection

by sidebyside_archivist



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Bonding, M/M, Telepathy, telepathic assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-01
Updated: 2006-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:15:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25503493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidebyside_archivist/pseuds/sidebyside_archivist
Summary: On a seemingly routine mission, Kirk and Spock are caught up in a Klingon plot to undermine the Federation.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Kudos: 6
Collections: Side By Side Issue 20





	The Image of Perfection

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: This story originally appeared in T'hy'la 10, published by Kathy Resch.
> 
> Note from LadyKardasi and Sahviere, the archivists: this story was originally archived at [Side by Side](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Side_by_Side_\(Star_Trek:_TOS_zine\)) and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2020. We tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Side by Side’s collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sidebyside/profile).

The figure lay flat against the table. A white blanket covered the lower part of its body, draping gracefully along the narrow hips and long, slender legs. Various tubes and sensors were attached to the skin, smooth and glistening with the newness of life. Radiating along the arms and legs, they seemed to cover the creature, coiling over chest and stomach before attaching themselves to the computers that lined every inch of wall space.

Two men, dressed in identical green uniforms, stood at the head of the table. One bent over a monitor at his right and spent several minutes in intense concentration, working several dozen dials one after another. Glancing up, he met his companion's gaze. "Ready."

The second man nodded. Tense with excitement, he flipped a switch on the panel before him and a soft, humming sound began to fill the room. A moment later the figure on the table shuddered, a long spasm that stretched from one end of the body to the other. It took a deep, gasping breath and the eyes flickered open, radiating for a single second a flash of life.

Then, uttering a faint bleating cry, the pupils rolled up under their lids and closed. The chest stilled once again and the dials above its head returned to zero. The creature, having tasted life for less than ten seconds, was dead.

The older man looked over, his expression somewhere between horror and resignation. His companion, mouth compressed, shook his head. "Damn," he muttered under his breath.

The two scientists studied the silent form for another long moment. Finally one turned toward the other, switching off the monitors. "Come on, Matthew," he whispered, his voice heavy with defeat. "Let's go get something to drink."

***

The sun was hot. Sitting on the grass, the bored and somewhat annoyed captain of the Enterprise tapped the flat of one hand against his thigh, his gaze on his first officer. Spock crouched on one knee, running his tricorder over what appeared to him to be nothing more than a slab of grey rock. "A rare example of magnesium oxide and coramin sulphate," the Vulcan had said over an hour before when he had first detected the strange reading, coming to what was, for him, a rather abrupt halt in their stroll through the silent countryside.

Idly, Kirk began to run a blade of grass through his fingers, recalling how Spock had stared at his tricorder, how the Vulcan had turned back to him. How he, astute man that he was, had smiled, had said, "Go ahead, study it. I'll wait." They had been hiking for the past four hours anyway. They could both use a five minute break.

He should have known better, should have known Spock better. Insatiable curiosity was written all over the Vulcan's face and if he hadn't found rocks about as interesting as a six-month run of star mapping, he would have recognized it at once. Five minutes only served to whet the Vulcan's appetite. By ten, he was hopelessly lost in research. By twenty Kirk was ready to throw a rock at his head.

Seventy-eight minutes later Spock stood up and moved a few feet to the left, his attention locked, still, on that blasted machine. Kirk watched, his fingers playing restlessly in the grass. Such elegance, he mused absently. When Spock moved, regardless of what he was doing, he seemed to do it with such elegance, such purity of motion. The nobility of the Vulcan race. He didn't know just what it was, but Spock seemed to have it in abundance, carrying himself with an air of almost regal dignity. _In an earlier time, he would have been a king_ , Kirk thought, letting the grass fall to the ground. _He's got the look, right down to his cell structure. Strong, intelligent, aristocratic. Perfect._ The captain straightened up by a fraction, quite unaware that his irritation was vanishing as completely as his boredom.

Lifting one arm Spock ran his hand along a rock ledge, tracing out a virtually invisible vein in the stone. Kirk looked with considerably more interest, saw the gentle curve in his back as he moved, the way the pants hugged his hips. Spock was dressed in an outfit of coal black, a color that suited him very well, highlighting his lean and powerful body, emphasizing the faint olive color of his skin. _No wonder half the women on the ship are in love with you at any given time,_ he thought, shifting his weight.

Long fingers followed a crystalline pattern in the rock, moving with a grace and refinement all their own. _Such beautiful hands._ The pressure was now getting difficult to miss, but Kirk was too caught up in his thoughts to notice. _God, I love to look at those beautiful hands._

The captain loved to do more than that if the truth be known. Spock, never less than a heartbeat away from his inner feelings, had picked up on that fact almost immediately. And had been more than happy to oblige. For someone relatively inexperienced, the Vulcan had shown a rather remarkable talent for innovation.

The thought brought a host of memories with it, the most recent scarcely five hours old. Kirk felt his face begin to heat as the images formed in his head. Looked down at his groin, noticed for the first time the now quite visible erection staring back at him. Felt his face heat some more.

Spock rose up on his toes, following the vein as it climbed higher in the rock face. The muscles in his shoulder and back rippled beneath the shirt as he did so, mute indications of the strength that lay buried beneath that slim exterior. He was like a cat, Kirk thought, heroically resisting the almost overwhelming temptation to squirm. Like a great black cat, stretching in the sun. Sleek, streamlined, majestic. Dangerous. There were only two men Kirk had ever met in his life who could truly frighten him. Spock was one of them.

And yet, for all of that there was a peculiar naivety to him, a childlike quality that he could never quite pin down. Such innocence wrapped in the facade of such power. A strange contradiction. Lord, it nearly drove him mad.

His groin was throbbing so insistently now he could no longer bear it in silence. So he took the plunge, mentally berating himself at the same time for his weakness. "How's the rock study going?"

Spock's gaze remained fixed on the tricorder. "Fascinating, Jim. A peculiar form of igneous rock. The chemical composition indicates that it was formed nearly eight thousand miles to the west approximately one hundred and eighty-four million years ago when the Tharinian Range was being uplifted from the ocean floor. At that time, of course, the Orlin central plain lay nearly seven thousand feet beneath the sea...."

It was actually becoming painful. Kirk shifted his weight again, but the movement didn't help. The last thing on his mind right about now was a lecture on Orlinian geology.

Spock hesitated and turned back to look at him, cutting short the dissertation. The reason for Kirk's restlessness was instantly apparent, the bulge so large that it actually brought a smile to the Vulcan's face.

Kirk flushed scarlet, something he hadn't done in years. "It's the sun," he said casually. "Does it to me every time." Even to his own ears, the words sounded painfully idiotic but they were out there now and, by god, he was sticking to them.

He faked a yawn, irritated with himself for his embarrassment, for interrupting Spock in the first place. The Vulcan had been enjoying his research, after all, and it wasn't as if they'd been living like a couple of monks for the past week.

Arching his spine, Kirk lay back against the grass. "Makes me sleepy too," he said, bringing all his persuasive powers to the fore. "You go on with your investigations. I'll just lie here and rest." His voice was as languid as a July afternoon, his penis shrieking out its unwavering call for his attention.

 _I'm a starship captain_ , he reminded himself. _I can beat this thing_. Flashing Spock one of his famous smiles, he rolled over on his side.

The Vulcan's gaze wandered down to rest on the erection that, despite his rather pathetic attempts at concealment, was still plainly visible. One eyebrow rose as an expression of playfulness filled his eyes. "Indeed. You wish to sleep?" He held the tricorder loosely in one hand, his expression calmly dignified, his legs spread widely apart in the classic Spock stance.

_Damn you. You know I can't resist it when you stand that way._

Spock responded by spreading those long legs a bit wider, the look on his face dispassionate, almost disinterested. Any arousal he may have felt did not extend beyond his mind.

Kirk said nothing, feigned interest in the surroundings. Two could play at this game.

The breeze picked up and the grass tickled his nose. Two butterflies swirled together in a bizarre mating dance, then landed on a flower a few yards away. A clump of trees, leaves a vibrant shade of orange, stood just beyond them, a cobalt blue lake farther on. Lovely. Not that he much cared at the moment.

Silence. A full minute passed.

Finally he glanced back.

Spock stood, still as a statue. When he saw he had Kirk's attention once again, he closed the tricorder lid with a very loud snap and, in what could only be described as a saunter, crossed the distance between them. Lowering himself down, he stretched out at the captain's side. Kirk's nonchalance didn't fool him for a second. "You are a most insatiable human," he said.

The blush that had just begun to fade was back with a vengeance. Just because they spent six out of every twenty-four hours in bed didn't mean he was insatiable. It was healthy, that's all. My body is a temple and all that. _And besides_ , he thought, giving Spock a rather baleful look, _it wasn't as if I'd held a gun to your head, you know._

True.

Spock's hand slipped between his legs, coming to rest on the now quite impressive bulge in his pants. Alien lips brushed against one ear. "You never seem to tire of sex. Interesting. I shall have to study this further."

But, much to his distress, Spock didn't study it further. He didn't do anything, just rested, propped up on one elbow, and watched him, his hand lying casually atop his groin.

Then the fingers moved, circled around, the erection surging up to greet them, and the captain gave up any hope of getting it under control.

And still Spock watched him, his eyes coolly impassive, clearly amused by his hapless and ultimately hopeless attempt to rein in his rebellious body.

He'd faced Romulan battle cruisers, Klingon occupation armies, Tellerites, Andorians, a fairly vast selection of other formidable creatures but never in his life did he confront an adversary as daunting as the one now holding his cock in his hand.

So the captain gave up. Not much sense in fighting a losing battle, anyway. _All right, all right. So I'm insatiable. But I'm hardly the only one._

"True," Spock repeated, pushing him none too gently onto his back. Swinging one leg over until his knee rested between Kirk's thighs, he loomed over him, his breathing harsher now, eyes flashing heat, heat and lust and naked sexuality.

The sight sent Kirk's hormones into orbit, the entire area from his navel to his hips pulsing with a life all its own, shredding his concentration to ribbons.

Spock's concentration, however, was just fine. His hand edged up, wandered around, evading the erection, a visibly moving thing now, and Kirk stiffened, his fingers digging into the grass at his sides. _Touch me. Goddammit, if you don't touch me I'm gonna lose my friggin' mind._

Obediently, the hand came back down to lie on his groin again but somehow that only made things worse. Kirk decided that the subtle approach was not what the situation called for.

Grabbing Spock around the shoulders, he pulled him over until the Vulcan's body covered him completely, smothering him under its own greater weight, its hardness, its inner strength. Spock laughed, a velvet sound buried in the crook of his neck, sending shards of excitement coursing through every blood cell, every nerve ending. Running his fingers through the dark hair, Kirk held him close, felt the Vulcan relax, seem to melt into him, following every curve of his body as if it were merely an extension of his own. Lord, it felt good; the warm breath against his skin, satin hair dusting his cheek. Iron-hard ribs bruising against his own. Spock's erection so enormous that it dwarfed his completely. Kirk could sense it move, nudging him, teasing him, almost threatening him. The stimulation was so intense he could barely keep his eyes from rolling up beneath the lids.

The clothing between them suddenly seemed an unbearable, infuriating barrier. "What do you say," the words came out hurried, somewhat hoarse, "we take off our clothes."

Spock raised his head, lips curled up in a smile. "You are a most impatient man," he said, a tad disapprovingly. "You must learn discipline."

Kirk knew he was in for it now. His heartbeat, impossibly, went up another notch.

That fiendish smile broadened. Spock read what was in Kirk's mind, and he was not one to disappoint. Good old Vulcan reliability. Where would he be without it.

"Impatient," Spock murmured, turning Kirk's head to one side. "Impatient and insatiable." He began to run his tongue along the flushed skin. "And demanding." Sharp Vulcan teeth traced the edge of his ear, nibbled on the lobe. Moved around the edge again and again in a game of foreplay that Spock seemed in no hurry to end. Finally, when Kirk was dangerously close to either madness or a complete coronary attack, Spock plunged his tongue into the cavity, holding his head just tight enough to prevent his turning away.

He squeezed his eyes shut as his reproductive system went into overdrive. Ears. Lord knows, he loved Spock's ears, but if there was one thing that felt so good it nearly killed him, it was this. Ears. _His_ weakness. How ironic.

That relentless tongue flicked down again and the pounding in his groin became almost unbearable, the line between pleasure and pain virtually disappearing. Distantly he sensed Spock take pity on him, move off to stretch out at his side again. Felt those beautiful fingers lace through the opening in his shirt and unfasten the buttons one by one. Felt the shirt being pulled back, the heat of the sun on his skin.

The hand moved lower, gently unfastening his pants and slipping beneath the waistband, fingers playing with his pubic hair, twining through it, driving him to near distraction by staying just out of reach of the straining penis.

Kirk arched his back until he thought his spine would crack. _Please, Spock_ , he pleaded rather incoherently. _I've always been nice to you. What did I ever do to deserve such torture?_

The Vulcan lifted his head. Although Kirk's eyes were closed, he knew that Spock was looking directly at him. His eternally mussed hair was tenderly brushed back from his brow and slowly, somewhat reluctantly, he opened his eyes.

Spock's expression was filled with astonishment. "Torture _you_ , Jim?" he said in mock dismay. "That hardly seems a logical scenario."

If he had enough functioning brain cells he would have replied, dredged up some witty rejoinder that suited his illustrious reputation. But right now the captain of the Enterprise was on total autopilot. Wit was definitely not on the tip of his tongue. Nor, frankly, was much of anything else.

Spock paused, his body quivering with pent-up sexual energy. Having James Kirk so utterly dominated beneath his hand was not without its erotic aspects.

Laying one hand firmly against Kirk's brow, he held him still. "Be silent and allow me to pleasure you."

The captain almost came right then and there.

That half-smile again; it turned him into mush. Lowering himself down, Spock covered him totally once more, his weight pressing Kirk hard against the grass. The smile faded as the Vulcan bent forward and kissed him, his tongue teasing the roof of his mouth, tracing the edges of his teeth, driving him insane. He could sense the power of Spock's voracious sexual appetite as the Vulcan finally let go, seemed to sink into him, feed on him. He gasped as the hunger grew, blossoming out like a savage flower, exploding into a fierce passion that went far beyond his own rather meager lust. The strength of it was quite overwhelming and he made no attempt to resist, just laid back, his arms and legs spread wide, and let it happen.

Pulling away, Spock straightened up. Running his fingers along the edge of Kirk's pants, he slipped them down, freeing the straining penis from its confinement at long last. The engorged organ sprang out into the air, stiff with blood, the skin stretched tight, shining in the sunlight.

Spock's whole body coiled at the sight of it, his breath hard now, hard and deep and almost frightening. His pupils were hugely dilated, eyes black as the midnight sky, everything about him radiating such dominance and control that the captain could do nothing but lie there in total surrender. He'd never been so aroused in his entire life.

Shifting his weight, Spock moved down his body, ran his open hands along the smooth chest, teasing the nipples, following the ribs across bare flesh. Kirk tore his gaze away from those hypnotizing eyes and looked down. Spock was still dressed, his splendid body concealed beneath that layer of black and the realization drove him to near distraction.

"Here. Let me help you get your clothes off." He began to fumble with the Vulcan's belt. But, when Spock took command as he was doing now, the result was quite disorienting and Kirk found even this simple task beyond him.

Spock actually growled, a rather unnerving sound, one laced with fire and passion and a healthy dose of possessiveness. With two fluid gestures, he slipped off his shirt and pants and tossed them carelessly to one side.

"God," Kirk whispered, looking at him as if seeing him for the first time, "you're beautiful." The sight of the Vulcan's nakedness, coupled with his own raging passion and need drove him right to the brink. "Come on." He pulled him forward. "Make love to me."

Spock straddled his waist and Kirk watched him concentrate, order the anal muscles to relax. Reaching behind, Spock grasped the erect shaft and guided it to the narrow opening. An instant later hot, moist heat surrounded him, tingling his skin, drowning his mind in such passion he could scarcely draw a breath.

He bit his lip nearly hard enough to draw blood as Spock pulled him deep inside his body. "Hey," he gasped, wondering how he could even talk. "You want to know something?"

Spock relaxed, letting his entire weight rest against Kirk's groin, his chest angled back, hands resting flat on the ground between the captain's knees. His hips rotated, swaying in a gentle rocking motion. "What?" he mumbled.

The captain could feel the imminent orgasm burning within him, but managed, for a moment, to hold it off. He ran his fingers through Spock's chest hair. "I love you. Did I ever tell you that?"

Spock smiled gently, the motion stilling for an instant. "Yes, Jim," he replied. "Once or twice."

***

The room was huge, but strangely empty. Several enormous paintings hung on the walls, depicting victorious battles of days gone by. A single massive chandelier was suspended from the ceiling, spreading arms of cut glass over at least four hundred square feet of floor space. A row of chairs lined one wall. Another consisted largely of windows.

Doctor Jeffrey Marcian entered the room with considerable trepidation. He knew why he had been summoned and the upcoming confrontation filled him with dread. Passing through the heavily embossed doors, he saw the premier at once. Sitting like a bird of prey at the opposite end of the room, the leader of Jarsin II had his desk, his office, built to his personal specifications. His domain was cavernous, his desk sitting at the far end facing the door. Its location forced those paying court to cross the open space alone, shedding confidence with every step, until at last they stood before the man himself. His battle to intimidate was half-won before he even opened his mouth.

Marcian began to walk. It seemed to take him forever to reach the other side and a part of his mind felt a grudging respect for Sumah Ocarias, the psychological effect being quite unnerving. His footsteps echoed as he moved, clacking against the parquet floor like the cracks of a whip. Several men in grey suits watched him intently as he moved, but he paid them little attention. The person seated behind the mammoth desk was the only one of importance here. And he was very important. Very important indeed.

Marcian stopped and bowed at the waist. "Premier," he said, endeavoring to keep his voice level. "I am honored to present myself for an audience, as requested."

A manicured hand slammed against the polished grain of the tabletop. Marcian, somewhat to his surprise, did not visibly flinch. Ocarias leaned forward, malevolence shimmering off him like a force field, a mute reminder of the true personality concealed behind a politician's facade.

"Doctor," he said, his voice low, a crumpled paper in one fist. "I have your latest report. It is not satisfactory. Not at all satisfactory."

Marcian stiffened. "I'm sorry, sir. I thought the experiment would succeed this time. I don't..." He hesitated under the unwavering, enraged gaze. "I don't yet understand why it failed. Every contingency was investigated. The match was perfect, chromosome patterns in identical alignment..."

The elder man rose to his feet. "I don't _care_ about chromosome patterns!" he shouted. "I need those workers! The transport ships are due to arrive in less than three weeks. I've promised them the crysallium ore! And I based those promises on your word that you would deliver!"

Marcian watched as the barrel chest rose up and down in a series of spasmodic swells. Despite Ocarias' anger, he knew that the premier spoke the truth. He _had_ promised that the cloning experiment would be successful, that the ore would be mined and crated with weeks to spare. He had been so sure he'd been correct, that he was finally on the right track. He knew now just how wrong he had been.

Premier Ocarias circled the desk to stand before him, waving the mangled paper in his face. "I need those workers to dig out that ore. You know as well as I do that automated machinery won't work in the mines!"

Marcian pressed his lips together, kept his face as expressionless as possible. He knew. Lord knows, he knew. Crysallium. A mineral that corroded every known type of metal within minutes. A mineral that, consequently, was nearly impossible to mine if the vein were deep, as they were here. A mineral worth a king's ransom. A hundred kings' ransom. He had grown to hate the very thought of it.

" _I want those miners_!" Ocarias bellowed the words from less than three feet away and Marcian did flinch this time. " _Do you understand!_ " Swiveling on one heel the premier paced the room. "I'd enslave the whole damn city if I could!" He stopped and turned back. "But I wouldn't be able to get away with that, with the peoples' foolish ideas of family. There isn't a lost soul in the entire fucking province! Everyone would be missed!"

Marcian said nothing. Family. It was one of the unshakable truths of Jarsin, meshing each and every person in a web of blood relationships that stretched out in a hundred different directions. If Ocarias opened a slave market here to feed his tunnels, he'd have a million enraged relatives nipping at his ankles within hours. The man wouldn't last out the month.

And Ocarias, he understood that all too well. Marcian had spent many a long night listening to the premier rant and rave about it, about the low birth rate, the sparse population that left precious little room for vagrants. About the rich hunting grounds that lay within his own solar system. Three planets closer to his home sun, blessed by her warmth, swarming with humanoids. The premier would gnash his teeth then, heave a glass against the nearest wall. Federation starships cruised the planets once a year, as regular as clockwork, checked on the progress, the security of these little worms. Ocarias, having no love for such sympathetic liberals, nevertheless needed the Federation for its ports, its markets, its goods. Its protection.

And the Federation did not approve of slavery.

Air-breathers without minds, without family. That's what he needed. If a few thousand were to die in the mines, who was to care? Let the philosophers in the Federation haggle over whether they had souls, rights, whether they were, in fact, slaves or simply patented creations from a laboratory. Let them argue. Forever. While they squabbled Ocarias would become a rich man.

The premier turned back, fixed Marcian with a piercing stare. The doctor expected him to screech, but when he spoke again, his voice was very low. "We've been over this time and again, Marcian. I've given you millions. _Millions_. And now, I expect a return on my investment."

The younger man swallowed. The words were no bluff. And he didn't have a prayer of success.

Ocarias seemed to read his thoughts. Grasping him by the lapel, he pushed him back, knocking him into the arms of his bodyguards. "I've purchased a fortune in Federation technology, Doctor. The credits are based on proceeds from the crysallium sale. If I cannot deliver the government will default and _you_ will spend the remainder of your life in the lowest dungeon at Borshakov. In an eight by twelve foot cage buried twenty feet into the ground. I'll have you entombed in there, Marcian, with nothing but the rats and the cold for company. You'll see no one. Ever. Do you hear me! No one! For the rest of your miserable, worthless life!"

He savagely kicked the desk. "Fourteen days, Marcian. The Enterprise will be here with my goods in fourteen days! I want your miners on line by that time...." He gave the poor man one last, vicious look. "Or you will be very, very sorry."

Turning his back, he waved an arm in dismissal. "Get out of my sight."

Doctor Marcian was quick to do as he was told.

***

The captain of the Enterprise closed the carrying case with a loud snap. Straightening up, he surveyed the tiny cabin for the last time. "I always look forward to returning to the ship," he said softly, "but, still, I'll regret leaving this place."

First Officer Spock moved to his side and brushed his fingers lightly against one cheek. "Indeed. It has been a most enjoyable shore leave."

Kirk covered Spock's hand with his own. "It has indeed. A most enjoyable shore leave. A part of me wishes that we could stay here forever."

Somewhat sadly the Vulcan shook his head. "You would tire of it, Jim. The peace would turn to monotony and drive you mad. You are far too...dynamic for such bucolic surroundings."

Kirk grinned ruefully. Spock was right. As usual. "Yeah," he said softly, "but still, the idea of spending the rest of my life here with you, just the two of us with nothing to do all day but love one another, is a very appealing image." His voice dropped an octave lower. "Sometimes when I look at you, I feel..." He searched for the right words. "It's like...a pressure in my chest." Pulling the Vulcan's hand down, he lay it against his sternum. "Right here, a tightness that I can't really explain. There are times when it almost seems like I can't breathe. I'd never felt anything like it before." Kirk's expression grew distant. For so many years, he'd been chasing it, his obsession for love nearly as strong as his obsession for the Enterprise. And here it was all the time, right under his nose.

He looked up, his eyes moist. "I love you, Spock. More than I ever thought it was possible to love anyone."

The Vulcan slid his arms around Kirk's waist and pulled him close. "And I love you, beloved t'hy'la. So much. So very much."

Kirk laid his head on Spock's shoulder, felt the arms tighten around him, envelop him in that warmth of savage protection he had grown to expect.

And, suddenly, James Kirk felt something else. Something very large, very hard to miss. His eyes brightened. Romantic scenes. God, Spock was a sucker for romantic scenes. There wasn't an erotic dancer in the world that could get him up faster than a touch of sentiment.

"What do you say?" He gazed into those solemn eyes, his expression impossible for any warm-blooded creature to resist. "One for the road?"

The Vulcan gave him an adoring, though rather befuddled look. He laughed. "Get it on, hit the sack, make hay while the sun shines..."

Understanding dawned. "I believe the term is 'get laid'?"

Such words coming from Spock. A short time ago he wouldn't have believed it possible. "Get laid, yeah. How'd you like to get laid."

Concern flashed across the Vulcan's face. "I don't believe we have the time. Engineer Scott is due to beam us up in eight point three minutes."

"Plenty of time." Kirk slid his hands under Spock's shirt, ran them up and down his chest. One index finger slipped under the top of the Vulcan's pants. Kirk could actually see the erection quiver. "I think eight minutes will be more than enough time. What do you think?"

Spock held his breath, wondering vaguely what happened to his famous mental controls. He made no answer.

Verbally anyway.

***

Lieutenant Commander Montgomery Scott was predictably prompt. The transporter beam caught the two men at precisely 1200 hours. A moment later, they materialized on the stately vessel that was, for all intents and purposes, their home for as long as they wished.

The first thing that the captain of this noble ship saw when the disorientation faded was the face of his Chief Medical Officer. Leonard McCoy slapped his hands together and moved to stand before them. He was grinning from ear to ear. "Well, you two look just fine!" he boomed. "That shore leave came right in the nick of time, if I do say so myself." He eyed Spock carefully. " _You_ even look like you put on an ounce or two. Good. You could use it. Too damned skinny. You even look _tan_. How did you get him out into the sun, Jim?"

He glanced over to see a flush of embarrassment color the captain's cheeks as memories of their naked frolicking in a half dozen different meadows came to mind. "Oops." McCoy's sudden blush rivaled his own. "Guess I'll just keep my mouth shut." He turned away. Behind him, he heard Kyle chuckle.

Kirk stepped off the pads, Spock at his side. "How have things been on board while we were gone," he asked, deliberately changing the subject.

McCoy looked back, but it was Mr. Scott who answered the question. "Fine, sir. We dropped that grain off at Argus III, then shuttled the Denebian ambassador to the Federation council meeting on Rigel. Routine all the way. No problems."

"Good. Good. And our next assignment is to deliver computer components to Jarsin II?"

"Aye, sir. Mr. Chekov already has the course plotted and laid in."

Kirk nodded, pleased with the typical efficiency of his crew. "You may instruct him to leave orbit when ready. Mr. Spock and I will change into our uniforms and meet you on the bridge in fifteen minutes."

Scotty's hand was already on the intercom, opening the channel to the navigator's station. "Right away, sir."

Kirk flashed Spock a grin and walked out into the corridor. McCoy swung into step beside them, his attention on his old nemesis, the embarrassment of a moment before forgotten. "You could at least have sent me a postcard, Spock," he teased.

The Vulcan gave him a strange look, but did not dignify the statement with a response. McCoy, delighted to have his sparring partner back, was not deterred. "You know - a postcard with a picture of a waterfall or a pony nibbling grass. On the back, you could have written something like, 'Wish you were here.'"

One eyebrow rose. "I did _not_ wish you were there, Doctor. In fact, I found your absence to be quite enjoyable."

McCoy's smile vanished and he gave Spock the Evil Eye. Kirk raised one arm into the air. "All right, all right, you two. Enough. We've only been on board for three minutes and already you're at each other."

McCoy and Spock both turned to look at him. Despite the baiting words between them, their eyes were filled with amusement - and affection. Kirk smiled. Home again. It felt good to be home again. "Come on," he slapped Spock gently on the arm. "Let's go change and get up to the bridge where we belong."

***

The wind was cold, whistling down the river valley, blowing from the frozen ice sheets three hundred miles to the south. The hour was midday, the season winter. The temperature was fourteen degrees Fahrenheit.

One man stood, wrapped in a thick fur coat. He leaned against the wharf railing, huddling in a desperate attempt to keep warm, but the effort was useless. The wind was always the strongest master here, bespeaking a harsh and bitter climate that ranged from brutal to simply unpleasant. It forced life to hold on by tenuous fingers, weeding out the weak and unfit, making Jarsin II the underpopulated world that it was.

Turning around, the man searched the nearly deserted park.

And saw the solitary figure approach him from across the brittle and long dead grass. Face obscured by a heavy cowl, body sheathed in a coat similar to his own, the man appeared forbidding in a way that was difficult to describe. The native shivered, but this time it was not due to the cold.

The stranger reached his side. He spent a moment gazing at the white-capped water before him. "I was to see the premier," he whispered at last. "Not one of his minions."

The young man stiffened. "Premier Ocarias does not become involved in such...endeavors. I am authorized to speak for him. You will tell me of your proposal and I will relate it to the premier. After he has had time to examine everything, we will, _perhaps_ , talk again." The smug words gave him courage. He lifted his chin into the air.

The newcomer turned away from the water and met his gaze. A gust of wind blew the cowl away from his face and, for the first time, the native could clearly see his eyes. They were dark, but more than that, they were black - a deep, empty black, totally devoid of warmth, compassion, mercy. Almost like the eyes of a machine. They were, he suddenly realized, Klingon eyes. His resolve abruptly disintegrated.

"You will listen to me, servant," the stranger hissed. "I know of your premier's problems with the crysallium shipment. I know of the Federation battle cruiser that is now on its way to this miserable planet of yours. And, I know of the experiment that has failed and caused his predicament."

The native's jaw dropped. "How do you know all this?"

An evil smile spread across the alien's face. "We have our methods, underling. You will tell your premier that we realize what he is trying to do. And..." He paused for effect. "We have the technology he needs to succeed."

The man felt his heart skip a beat. He knew next to nothing of the experiment, save that the premier attached great importance to it. Rumors had been spreading through government circles for months, speculating on the nature of the work, but, cloaked in secrecy, it had been a cipher to them all.

With one very significant exception, the one thing he _did_ know. The research was important. It was very important, not just to the premier, but in an ill-defined way to them all. And it was also, apparently, in trouble. Serious trouble.

Standing before him, the young Jarsinian perceived, was a possible key to solving this mysterious problem, whatever it was. And _he_ was the conduit, a position, he recognized instantly, that could well bring him a rapid advancement in power and authority.

The native leaned forward, little knowing he was about to sign his own death warrant. "So tell me, Klingon. What is your proposal."

***

"It's your move." The words were spoken lightly, but the look in the captain's eyes was deadly serious.

Spock allowed himself the luxury of a sigh. The game was lost. He had known it three moves back, but, being a stubborn man, had not allowed Kirk an easy victory. One by one, his pieces fell victim to the relentless assault as they tried to protect the hapless queen. But the inevitable could no longer be delayed. The lady was trapped, totally surrounded, well beyond any hope of rescue.

Reaching up, he moved the figure to the only possible location. Kirk's gleeful reaction told him all too plainly that the game was now, finally, over. The captain moved his bishop from the second level to the third and sat back in his chair. "Checkmate."

Spock sighed again. "Must you derive such joy at seeing my defeat?"

Kirk laughed. "I love it. You know me, I don't like to lose. Not even to _you_."

"Indeed. The mark of an excellent starship captain."

Kirk's eyes softened with affection. "Why. thank you, my friend."

"Well, well. Slipping into the old routine already?"

Both men looked up to see Leonard McCoy standing a few feet away. He inclined his head toward the board. "Who won?"

"Mr. Spock did," Kirk said innocently as he began to rearrange the chess pieces.

McCoy didn't notice the surprised look that came into the Vulcan's eyes. "Figures. Mind if I sit down?" He seated himself without waiting for an answer. "Never did much care for chess myself."

"It does require a minimum level of intelligence, Doctor." Spock commented dryly.

McCoy gave him a piercing stare. "I wouldn't play with you anyway, Spock. You probably cheat!"

"Vulcans don't cheat, Bones."

McCoy turned to face the captain. "Ah, yes. But _humans_ are among the best cheaters in the galaxy. And, pointed ears or no, don't let that alien face of his fool you. Your first officer is far more human than he ever lets on."

"Don't I know it," Kirk muttered under his breath.

McCoy raised an eyebrow, unsure if he heard correctly. "What'd you say?"

The captain glanced up. "Who me, Doctor? I didn't say anything at all." He smiled his best smile, aware that Spock, who _had_ heard correctly, was giving him a very severe look.

 _Don't be embarrassed. He doesn't get it_. Kirk sent the words spinning across the distance between them.

The Vulcan cast an oblique look to one side. McCoy was staring at him now, his expression confused. And, while the doctor may not have understood Kirk's veiled reference, he rapidly began to sense the unspoken communication that was going on between them now.

He started drumming his fingers on the tabletop. "All right, all right, you two. Whatever you're doing, cut it out. Why can't you just talk out loud like everyone else? It's damned creepy watching you shoot thoughts back and forth like that."

Kirk laughed. "Sorry, Bones. It's starting to become a habit."

"Habit," the doctor groused. "You're picking up a new Vulcan trait every day. Before I know it, you're going to start _looking_ like him!"

At that, even Spock had to smile.

***

The bar was noisy, tendrils of smoke curling through the air. Multi-colored lights flashed from a huge glass ball suspended from the ceiling, splashing reds, greens, blues along the walls and floor. A half-dozen different races were represented here, jostling among one another as they searched for amusement, excitement, escape.

Two men sat at a table in the far corner, their backs turned toward the center of the room. One of them leaned toward the other. "It is of no importance to you how we obtained the information. The fact is that it will work. You may rest assured of that." The man who had spoken straightened up. The hood concealing his face shifted and, for an instant, the trace of a bifurcated brow was clearly visible. Reaching up, he quickly pulled the material back into place.

His companion shook his head. "What if Starfleet finds out? They'll lock me away forever!"

"They won't find out. The duplication will be exact."

Anguished Jarsinian eyes met cold Klingon ones. "They _will_. You can't duplicate someone _that_ exactly. He...it'll make a mistake and they'll realize what's happened."

The Klingon smiled, a joyless smile that sent a wave of fear down Ocarias' spine. "Any difference will be negligible. No one will notice."

"What about that captain, what's his name?"

"Kirk."

"Yeah, Kirk. What about him? Even here on Jarsin, we've heard stories about their friendship. It's _legendary_ , for god's sake. Surely, _he'll_ notice something."

The Klingon shook his head. "Vulcans are aloof creatures, even to those who know them well. They have shields, barriers that protect them from emotions, mental contact. This man will be no different. If Kirk notices anything at all, he'll just attribute it to some minor cause or other. It won't prove a danger to us. Who knows? Perhaps he'll think it's the Vulcan's time of mating."

The thought seemed to amuse him. Ocarias did not share it. "I tell you he'll notice!"

The Klingon's amusement vanished, his eyes flashing black again. "None of this is really to the point, is it, Premier? You have no choice. If you do not cooperate, the ore ships will leave with their holds empty and your government will default. The Federation, she will not like that, will probably launch an investigation of your finances." The words hissed in his throat. "And that, I think, would be a very bad idea for you, friend. Who knows what they might find. Why you could spend the remainder of your days on a penal planet if you're not careful."

He leaned back in his chair. "It is not so much to ask, after all - to save you and your government. All we want in exchange is the first duplicate and then we're gone."

"With the real one stashed away in your ship like so much contraband, I suppose."

The Klingon snickered. "Of course. There are a great many Federation secrets locked up in that head of his. And we have several new methods of interrogation that we wish to test. Even if he reveals nothing, it will be an interesting exercise for the equipment."

Ocarias shivered. What the Klingon meant by 'the equipment,' he preferred not to think about. "And you swear that this will be the end of it?" His voice trembled slightly.

"I've given you my word as a Klingon officer. You'll never see me again. Our business will be concluded. Forever."

Ocarias studied the swarthy face. He well knew that the man's promises were essentially worthless. And, despite the assurances to the contrary, he realized that, once he had compromised himself, the nightmare would only be beginning. The Klingons would be back whenever it suited their purposes.

But, unfortunately, his adversary was right. He had no choice, no maneuvering room. Either he cooperated and hoped to escape discovery or he rejected the offer and lost everything of importance to him: his position, his wealth, his power. Marcian, his great genius famed throughout the Jarsinian system, was clearly a failure. That idiot, with enough scholarly credits to choke a horse, was worthless when it counted. Constructs indeed! He'd have had better luck trying to raise the dead.

The premier closed his eyes. He couldn't avoid the obvious. The alien had him cold and they both knew it. Slowly, he buried his head in his hands. "All right." The words were scarcely audible. "When do you want to begin?"

The Klingon smiled. "My science officer is already in the city. He will come to your office in the morning and transfer the information."

Ocarias stood, took a step back from the table. "Very well, then. Until tomorrow." Turning he quickly left the room, showing uncharacteristic carelessness as he jostled people in his haste to reach the exit.

The Klingon watched silently as the door swung back, the path in the crowd Ocarias had left behind filling in again. _Fool_. He ran a dirty finger along the edge of his glass. _Greedy, ignorant fool. You really think you know what's going on here - that you're in control of **anything**_. Taking a long swallow from his beer mug, he shook his head at the naivety of the provincial mind. From the very beginning, Ocarias had been manipulated and yet the imbecile suspected nothing. The mining agreement he was prepared to sell his soul for? The Klingon snorted into his beer, watched as the foam blew up to coat the far side of the glass. A farce. That's all it was. A ploy the Empire had played out successfully again and again to snare simpletons like him. A trader shows up with pockets filled with gold and the business sense of a cow, preparing to buy, in this case, Jarsinian ore at a wildly inflated price. Ocarias, seeing nothing but profit, snaps at the bait like a starving rat.

Reaching into his pocket, he threw a coin on the table, wishing he could be a fly on the wall when Ocarias learned the bitter truth; that his trusty buyer had vanished without a trace, that there were no ore ships coming. That the precious little slaves he was more than ready to sell out the Federation for had no value at all.

And in one splendid, final irony, that a synthetic form of his beloved crysallium had just been successfully manufactured somewhere at the other end of the galaxy. The news should reach this sector in about a month's time. Ocarias' priceless ore was, in reality, as worthless as his miners.

Tilting up his mug, he emptied it in one gulp, carefully holding the hood in place with his free hand. Fool, indeed, cloning away in his little laboratory, hatching his little plots. When the duplicate was discovered, as it was bound to be eventually, the trail would lead straight back to Ocarias with nothing but his word and a few moldering corpses to implicate the Empire. Even if his rantings were believed, there would be no proof; nothing but a laboratory, reams of documentary evidence that the good Doctor Marcian no doubt compiled, a trail of incriminating facts and the remains of an aide or two buried in the palace grounds. Nothing.

The stranger grinned. A penal colony. Poor Ocarias had gone quite pale when he'd mentioned it, but there would come a time, the Klingon had no doubt, when Ocarias would yearn for the safety of such a place. The Vulcans were a peaceful race, but revenge ran deep in their psyches. They would not take kindly to his betrayal of one of their own, especially one so revered as this one.

Grunting, the Klingon waved off the waiter than appeared at his elbow and rose to his feet. _A good day's work_ , he thought to himself. _A good day's work, indeed_. A belch rumbled through his gut as he strolled casually to the door and crossed out into the street. Not only had it been a good day, it had been a long day as well. He was tired. Striding up the well-lit road, the young soldier made his way back to his hotel where he slept for six straight hours, a sleep that was not disturbed by so much as a single dream.

***

Doctor Jeffrey Marcian was so astounded at the sight that he nearly dropped the monitor in his hand. Ocarias, knowing the reason why, smiled. "I've been meaning to visit your laboratory for a long time, Doctor. Sorry I haven't made it until now." He smiled again. The insincerity behind the gesture was almost tangible.

Marcian stepped forward, slipping the small device in a breast pocket. Cautiously, he extended one arm. "I'm honored that you've come, sir."

Ocarias shook his hand and scanned the room in feigned interest, but his frayed nerves prevented the pretense from lasting very long. He met Marcian's gaze once again. "We must talk," he said brusquely.

The doctor could sense the tension emanating from the older man, but there was something different about it now. This was not the enraged fury that he had seen earlier, the agitation of a man in serious financial trouble. The emotion Marcian felt now was far more fundamental and, after a moment, he realized what it was. Fear. Basic, primeval fear.

Ocarias grasped his arm and steered him toward his office. "Now, Marcian. We must talk _now!_ "

There was no room for objection and the doctor followed him without a word. As soon as the door slammed shut, Ocarias threw himself into a nearby chair. His face was a deathly pale and, when he rubbed his fingers nervously across one cheek, Marcian could see his hand shake.

"Doctor...." Ocarias stood again, began to pace. "I...There is a way out of our present...dilemma. I have found a source that has promised technology which will enable your experiment to be successful." He paused. His eyes shifted apprehensively toward the door.

Marcian's heart began to pound. "What? What technology? Who's offering it?"

"Another power. You don't need to know any more than that. This power, they have...acquired the technology, but do not have the facilities to utilize it. Somehow, they've learned of our experiments, our failure. The information has been offered to me..."

Marcian clearly felt the hesitation, the tightness that suddenly came into the premier's voice. It wasn't difficult to guess the reason. "What do they want?"

"A favor. A small thing, really. Once the technology is laid in, the first experiment will be done for them and then they will leave."

"What do you mean? I don't unders..."

Ocarias glared at him. "I mean exactly what I said! The first experiment, the first creature you create will be done for them. The subject has already been selected."

Marcian felt a cold shiver chase up his spine. This was starting to have a very bad ring to it. "Subject? What in the hell do you mean? And who are 'they,' anyway?"

As if in response, someone rapped loudly on the door. "You _will_ do it!" Ocarias shot him a wild look. "Do everything he says."

He had no idea what the premier was talking about but before he could ask him the door opened and a man walked in. Dressed in a traditional technician's garb, the stranger, nevertheless, looked out of place. He stopped a dozen feet away and smiled, but it was a mirthless thing that did not extend to his eyes. Black, they were. And frightening for some reason. Marcian took an involuntary step backward.

Ocarias moved to the stranger's side. "This is Doctor Turan. He will be assisting you with the new information, help you get the system on line...oversee the initial experiment."

Marcian studied the man's face. Although the skin was darker than normal for a Jarsinian, he seemed in every other way to be a native of this place. Except for the eyes and once again his attention turned to them. The blackness was, he realized now, a strange sort of optical illusion. The pupils were not black, but brown, a chocolate brown not unlike the color of his own. And yet there was something else hidden there, something he couldn't put his finger on. An underlying malevolence that made Premier Ocarias' rages seem like a child's temper tantrum in comparison.

Slowly, he bowed his head. "Doctor?"

The other man nodded and that was when Marcian saw it, a faint discoloration on his forehead, a streak beginning midpoint in the eyebrow and tapering off an inch to the left. Almost as if the strip of skin there had only recently been exposed to the sun.

He blinked. Not one mark, two. One above each eye and his feeling of apprehension soared. _An outworlder_ , he thought in dismay. _What in gods name has Ocarias gotten us into this time?_

The stranger seemed to read his thoughts but appeared not to care. "If I may?" He approached the computer. "My superiors are quite anxious to begin."

Ocarias looked like he was about to faint but still he managed to answer. "Of course. Of course. Consider my equipment as yours."

The newcomer's expression did not change. He sat before the terminal and turned on the screen. "It is actually quite basic, Doctor. A genetic code that you must insert into the matrix." He began to punch a long, mathematical equation into the computer. "For example, you would select the appropriate subject and take the tissue sample, of course, to construct the DNA helix. However, the key lies in the protein balance within the blood. A simple thing, really, so simple, in fact, that you probably missed it. The transference of the unique DNA structure causes an infinitesimal shift in the protein composition of the experimental construct." He pulled up a schematic on the board and turned back to face the doctor. "Do you see it?"

Marcian leaned forward. The error was so glaring that it fairly shouted out at him. He felt the breath catch in his throat. "Yes! Of course! How could I not have seen....?" The sentence remained unfinished as his mind began to spin in a thousand different directions. "All we have to do is alter the protein chain in the RNA, feed the data directly to the connecting bonds..." He looked up at the stranger, his eyes bright with excitement.

The man smiled. "The mathematical equation that I've just inserted into the computer highlights the protein composition relative to the DNA structure. The disproportion wouldn't have shown up on your graphs, which explains why you didn't detect it earlier. Since the protein balance will vary with each individual donor, this equation will enable you to correct for the fluctuations. Your subjects will live, Doctor Marcian. _That_ is what we have offered to you."

The words brought back others of a few moments before, and of a question that had not been answered. The momentary surge of euphoria vanished completely. Marcian straightened up and looked the stranger in the eye. What he saw on the surface, the doctor suddenly realized, was not reality. The truth lay beneath it, running just below the facade of normality like a poisonous undercurrent. "What's in this for you?" he asked suspiciously. "What do you get out of it?"

The Klingon met his gaze evenly. "In twelve days, a Federation vessel will arrive at Jarsin. There is a man aboard that ship who is of some interest to...us. You will create a duplicate of this man to take the place of the original, who will be," the stranger smiled, "escorted to my home planet."

Marcian was dumbstruck. For a moment. "You must be joking," he said at last.

The other man rose to his feet, his malevolence surrounding him like a forcefield. "Klingons never joke, my friend."

***

Marcian slammed a fist against the tabletop. "No! I won't do it!"

The Premier of Jarsin II leaned forward, resting thick arms against the polished surface of his desk. "You _will_ do it!"

Marcian ground his teeth together, his jaws flexing under the pressure. "Biological transfer is one thing, but he's talking about minds here. _Minds_ , Premier!"

"It is none of your concern."

"Like hell it isn't. It's _my_ reputation that's on the line. And I won't have anything to do with this. It's totally unethical."

Ocarias laughed. "Unethical! A fine word coming from your mouth! You were more than willing to construct biological units to die in the mines, knowing full well that there was a rudimentary intelligence there, enough for them to follow orders, enough for them to feel pain. Don't give me any garbage about being unethical. You hedged around the morality by claiming they were simply automatons but they would have suffered, just like a dumb animal suffers, just like a worm suffers when it's impaled on a fishing hook!"

Marcian stiffened and turned his face away. Ocarias was quick to press his advantage. "So don't lecture me with any holier-than-thou speeches about morality. The fact of the matter is that you have no more choice than I do."

"I _do_ have a choice," Marcian mumbled. "I'm not the one who overextended himself. I didn't sign those mining treaties. I didn't buy that Federation technology. You did."

Ocarias' eyes narrowed. The doctor's arguments were not unexpected. And he had an answer already prepared. Leaning back in his chair, he began twirling a pen absently in his fingers. "Doctor," he said pleasantly. "I understand that you have a mother living in the city."

Marcian's head swiveled abruptly to look at him and Ocarias knew his instincts had, once again, been good. Laying the pen to one side, he smiled. "A nice old lady, too, I've heard. It must worry you to have her living alone like that. What with the city so unsafe." He clucked his tongue. "Drug addicts, criminals, heaven only knows what."

Ocarias noted with satisfaction that Marcian's complexion had visibly paled. "Why, only last week I heard of one case of a gang that roams the streets looking for vulnerable women. According to police records, they kidnap them, take them away to some seedy little hideout in the woods and, what they do to them." He rolled his eyes. "Shocking. Most of the victims die of their injuries, but some have survived to tell of their ordeal. Such stories - horrible. Rape, torture. It's enough to make your blood run cold."

Marcian closed his eyes, realizing what was coming. And the premier was not one to disappoint. "That gang hasn't been caught yet and I understand they're due to strike again. Been spotted in the Harrath quarter. You know anyone who lives over that way?"

He watched as the doctor's shoulders began to slump and the sight brought a smile to his lips. "In two hours Turan will return to test the equipment. You will assist him in any way he desires. What will you need from the Starfleet officer to construct the duplicate?"

"A blood and tissue sample. 40 cc's of blood, 3 square centimeters of tissue." Marcian did not open his eyes when he spoke.

"I'll arrange a minor accident." Ocarias hardly noticed. "Something that will arouse no suspicion. How long will it take to construct the thing?"

"I'm not certain. A day. Perhaps longer."

"And, once the body is formed, the mental patterns will be transferred?"

Mutely the doctor nodded.

Ocarias rolled the pen absently across the desktop. "I'll have to find some way to keep them here for that long. Shouldn't be too much of a problem." He sat for a moment in thought, then looked up. "We're done here, Doctor. You can leave anytime you want."

He watched as Marcian stumbled toward the door, knew exactly when to twist the blade a final time, cut off the one faint straw he knew the fool was clutching to right now. At the point of escape, when his fingers touched the doorknob. "Oh, and Doctor..."

Marcian halted, his back as rigid as reinforced concrete.

"Don't get any ideas about sneaking out of the building and hiding your mother away somewhere. I've given strict orders that you're not to leave the complex, have any outside contact, until after the conclusion of our work. Understood?"

Again, a silent nod was his only reply. But it was enough. Ocarias had won this round, just as he expected he would. He did, after all, hold all the cards.

Marcian left the room, in a single act of defiance slamming the door as he went, but the premier paid the impotent gesture no mind. The man was a weakling. He'd do what he was told. Worried about his aged mother; simpering, gutless creature.

Ocarias laughed. Old woman was hardly worth the concern, would likely be dead in a year's time anyway.

He sat back in his chair, hands laced across his ample stomach, and turned his mind to more important matters. He'd had a long talk earlier in the day with the Klingon masquerading as Goras Turan. The man appeared sincere, even friendly, not traits he would have normally attributed to people of his race. There had been an open exchange of information between them and, with every passing moment Ocarias had felt his concerns continue to fade, his self-assurance grow. The Klingon seemed quite certain that the duplication would pass undetected indefinitely and had been more than willing to share those rosy predictions with him. The confident words were not without effect and now, sitting in his office, firmly planted behind his monstrous desk, Ocarias began to believe that perhaps this crazy scheme would work after all.

Perhaps he would, indeed, get the last laugh.

***

The first thing that the captain of the Enterprise noticed when the transportation was complete was the chandelier. Hanging over his head like a huge, malevolent vulture, it send a strange chill down his spine. Several men waited a dozen feet beyond, standing in a row facing the new arrivals. The men ranged in age from mid-thirties to ancient. None seemed particularly happy to be here.

He scanned the group. Premier Ocarias, dressed in what was by far the most splendid outfit of the lot, stood out like the proverbial sore thumb. Kirk walked toward him, wearing his best diplomatic smile, grateful to pass from under the fixture's monstrous arms.

Ocarias moved away from the others to meet him halfway. He bowed at the waist. "Captain Kirk. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

His gaze shifted to Spock and held there for a moment. The smile widened. "A pleasure indeed." He gestured to the men standing behind him. "These are the members of my High Council." He gave a rapid introduction, rolling the names off one by one, his arm moving swiftly down the line. Finally, he stopped at the last man, a tiny, hawk-faced creature dressed in an oversized suit. "This is Doctor Alikar Morsa. He's my Trade Commissioner. You will deal primarily with him in working out the fine details of the equipment transfer." Ocarias grinned again. Morsa remained expressionless.

Laying a soft hand on Kirk's shoulder, the premier leaned forward. "I apologize in advance." Once again, he gave Spock a long glance, "for the task you now face in instructing my people on the uses of their purchases. But I'm afraid that the intricacies of Federation technology are quite beyond them." He winked. The captain, having taken a peculiar, but immediate dislike to the man, resisted the urge to shrug the hand from his shoulder.

He smiled instead, falling into his role as the perfect diplomat. "We understand, Premier. We've both been through it before."

Ocarias slapped him on the arm. "Yes, I suppose that you have. More times than you can even count, I'll wager. Doctor." He turned his attention to the wizened creature standing a few feet away. "Come and take our friends into the conference room. When you've finished your business, signal me and I'll have a servant escort them to their quarters."

"Yes, Premier." Morsa stretched a scrawny arm out to one side, indicating a doorway at the far end of the room. "If you will come with me, we can begin at once."

Kirk smiled into the native's unsmiling face, then glanced back to the premier.

But Ocarias wasn't looking at him. His focus was on Spock and the expression on his face was disturbing somehow. Smug and predatory at the same time. A red alert began to beep faintly in the back of the captain's head. "Come on, Spock," he said, his attention still on the native. "Let's get started."

They turned away. Ocarias' voice rang out behind them. "Captain?"

Kirk and Spock looked back simultaneously.

"The dinner I have planned for this evening will be the social event of the season." The premier slapped his hands together in apparent delight. "Everyone who is anyone will be there. We'll all be looking forward to seeing you."

 _Marvelous. That's just **marvelous.**_ The wry comment flashed through his mind but did not show on his face and he graciously inclined his head. "The pleasure is all ours, Premier."

Ocarias waved them on. "Well, go. Go. There really isn't that much time. While you're in there I'll be sending someone in to measure you for the kassiam." Seeing the confusion in Kirk's eyes, he laughed. "By tradition, the guests of honor wear a traditional garment, called the kassiam. It is a sign of high regard, I assure you."

Kirk smiled once again, beginning to wonder if the expression was frozen on his face. At his side, Morsa began to walk away again. Kirk turned to follow, instinctively laying a hand on the Vulcan's wrist as he did. And he saw, at the edge of his vision, a strange shadow abruptly pass over Ocarias' face. It was an expression that he didn't understand, but one that left him uneasy. Very uneasy.

He hesitated but the unnerving look was gone now. Ocarias bowed at the waist. "Until later, gentlemen."

With that the premier left the room, his countrymen following him in an orderly straight line. Kirk watched until the heavy door closed behind them. Glancing over, he caught the Vulcan's gaze. Spock's eyes were open, unguarded, carrying just a trace of puzzlement. He shook his head. If his empathic first officer didn't perceive any sense of danger or intrigue from the Jarsinian premier, then perhaps he was simply imagining things. He shrugged, brushed his concern aside. "Just getting paranoid in my old age, I guess."

***

It was exactly forty-eight minutes later. The conference room was full of jabbering scientists and officials, most of who clustered around the First Officer of the Enterprise. An enormous table bisected the room. Opened boxes and containers lay strewn across it, papers and manuals scattered every which way. Fifteen or twenty computer terminals sat among them, their monitors on, their screens filled with instructions and modifications that the natives standing before them clearly did not understand.

Kirk stood to one side, a smaller group gathered around him, and watched Spock fend off the continual jabs and prods as the natives competed for his attention. Every touch passed through the link and he felt the barrage of sensations as clearly as did his first officer, reminding him yet again how sensitive Spock's telepathic powers truly were. He pressed his lips together, knowing that there was nothing he could do to extricate his gentle friend from the situation, dearly wishing the entire local contingent into a merciful oblivion.

One man broke away from his terminal and raced to where Spock was standing. Shoving his shoulder into the back of the man before him, he forced his way to the Vulcan's side and grasped his arm, gesturing frantically at the screen he'd just left. Spock raised an eyebrow, the distaste at the intimate contact carefully concealed, and patiently began to explain the incomprehensible instructions on the board. Someone else interrupted, asking a question that had been posed in a dozen different variations already. Kirk distinctly saw a flash of irritation on the angular face, but it was gone before anyone else could focus on it.

A minor trading board official poked him with one finger. "Captain?"

He glanced down into the native's eyes, realizing that his thoughts had wandered, that the man had in fact been speaking to him for several moments. He smiled apologetically and was about to respond when the communicator at his hip began to signal

Spock immediately raised his head, one eyebrow lifting by a fraction of an inch. Kirk excused himself, stepping away from the crowd. Lifting the device from his belt, he walked to a spot near the window and opened a channel. "Kirk here."

"Captain?" Scotty called down to him, a trace of concern in his voice. "We've just received a distress call, sir."

He gave Spock a quick look. "From whom?"

"The Daphne. She's a class three pleasure cruiser out from Arial. According to her captain, she was struck twenty minutes ago by an unknown satellite that broke up on impact. Whatever it was, it had no sensors or markers to flag it ahead of time. Just came at them out of nowhere, according to Captain Reynal's report. Hit her vessel square in the left nacelle and tore it off completely. She says she canna navigate and asked for our assistance in towing her ship back to port."

A dozen expectant faces peered at him from throughout the room, three times that many swarming around Spock. Ocarias' servants had already interrupted their meeting three times to ask about their choices of foods, their preferences in drink, even inquiring as to the color of flowers they preferred on their table. Only five minutes before, a tiny woman had approached, quickly measured the two of them, much to Spock's rather visible distress, and departed. "The keeper of the kassiam," someone said by way of explanation.

It was then that Kirk gave up his final, faint hope of somehow avoiding the upcoming festivities. If the kassiam was so highly revered that it had its own separate functionary, then clearly it held great significance indeed. To reject it, to leave now would certainly cause great offense, unnecessary offense.

Kirk looked over to see the Vulcan's dark eyes meet his own. A middle aged man, a physicist from the private sector, stood before him now, visibly impatient. After waiting for less than five seconds, he tugged at Spock's sleeve, ignoring the glares of his countrymen, and waved a sheaf of papers in the Vulcan's face. "I can't follow these," he wailed. "You have to help me!"

 _Damn diplomacy_. The captain watched them, resisted the urge to go over and punch the man in the mouth.

Instead he raised the communicator to his lips again, turned his attention back to his chief engineer. "Did you check out the call with Starfleet?"

It was, he well knew, an unnecessary question, but Scotty answered it nonetheless. "Aye, sir. The Daphne's registered, all right. She makes the tourist run every twenty-eight days around the Turelias asteroid belt and the rings of Saron. Her tonnage is four hundred and seventy-eight thousand pounds, Captain. There isn't another ship in this quadrant that can tow something that big."

"How many passengers is she carrying?"

"Three hundred and nine."

Kirk frowned. With one of her two nacelles effectively gone, engine power would be severely restricted. Unlike a Starfleet battle cruiser, life support systems on a class three weren't designed to function in the wake of such a crippling power loss. Auxiliary batteries would take up some of the slack, but even at that, the systems would fail after only three days. And towing a vessel of that size to Arial, even for a ship as mighty as his, would take at least two. Clearly, there was no alternative. But still he felt a strange reluctance to order the Enterprise away.

Stifling the nagging warning at the back of his mind, he gave the only order possible under the circumstances. "All right, Scotty. Mr. Spock and I will remain here. You have the con. Go out and get her."

"Aye, sir. But it'll be at least fifty-six hours before we'll be back."

"I know." His fingers tightened around the communicator. "It can't be helped. Signal me when you return. Kirk out." Flipping down the lid he cut the transmission. The feeling of unease that had faded in the past hour was suddenly back. He ran his fingers through his hair, tried once again to shake it off. Perhaps it had something to do with the crippled Daphne. There was no reason to assume that every premonition he experienced was directly related to himself. Or his ship.

Glancing up, he saw that Spock was still watching him. _Or to you, my friend._

***

The Premier of Jarsin II sat behind his desk, twirling a stylus in his fingers. The meeting with the men from Starfleet ran through his mind again and again like a defective recording loop and with each playback his sense of foreboding increased.

Grasping the stylus in a tight fist, he began tapping it restlessly against the polished surface. The feeling of unease was nothing he could put his finger on; an odd look in the captain's eye as he gazed at his first officer. A shared one that skirted on the edge of something very different, a peculiar presence of some kind.

The premier shook his head. No. That wasn't it. Not a presence. More like a charge, a force that seemed to flow back and forth between them, linking the two together in a strange way, shutting everyone else out completely.

 _Aloof_. The Klingon's words came back to him, the tone almost mocking. _Vulcans are aloof creatures. No one will notice_. The image of Kirk's hand resting on the man's arm seemed to burn into his mind like acid. " _Even for him, there will be a certain distance,_ " the Klingon had said. " _Do not worry. Do not worry. Do not worry...._ "

Ocarias dropped the stylus, spread his open hands across the tabletop. He was, frankly, worried. Very worried. Even though he had only been in their company for a few moments, he could sense the chemistry between the two, had seen the expression on the Vulcan's face when he looked at his captain. Aloof was about the last work he would have used to describe it. The very last word.

Reaching into his desk drawer, he pulled out the small communicator hidden there. Now that the Enterprise was safely lured away, the Klingon vessel had come out of hiding from behind one of Jarsin's three moons and taken up orbit around his planet. Contact was permissible.

Carefully opening the lid, Ocarias sent up an urgent call to the ship's commander.

***

Kirk yawned, stretching his arms out before him. "Thank god that's over. If I'd had to listen to you explain that electromagnetic relay circuit one more time I think I would have screamed."

Spock moved to his side and sat down. "The technology is confusing to them, Jim. It is a significant improvement over what they had been using."

Kirk laid an affectionate hand on his thigh. Spock had the patience of Job, a trait that he had always admired, due, in large part, to the fact that it was not one of his strongest points.

Spock glanced over and smiled, but said nothing and for a moment they sat in silence.

"Did you notice," Kirk said at last, "the look Ocarias gave you just before we left with Morsa?"

One eyebrow rose. "No."

The captain shook his head as if trying to dispel a persistent irritation. "It's nothing I can explain. It was just...strange. The expression on his face was... menacing somehow. It's been bothering me on and off all afternoon."

Dark eyes narrowed. Kirk's intuition had proven correct too many times for Spock to dismiss it, subjective though it was. "Do you sense danger from him?"

"I don't know." Kirk shrugged. "Maybe it's just a premonition of trouble...maybe it's the Daphne." Without thinking, he glanced up at the ceiling, at the sky hidden on the other side of the wall. "I don't like it when she's off without me, Spock. It's like the ship won't be safe unless I'm there. As if no one can protect her the way I can. Maybe that's all it is."

Looking back down, he saw the concern reflecting in those alien eyes. "Don't let it bother you," he said gently. "It's probably nothing but an emotional reaction, a combination of a duty I don't much relish and the Enterprise going off on a mission while I'm stuck down here. Hell, I took a dislike to Ocarias the moment I saw him. It's not surprising that I transferred that into a sense of danger directed at you. When I'm not busy worrying about the Enterprise, I spend all my time worrying about you."

The Vulcan's mouth softened in understanding. Reaching up, he ran his fingers across one smooth cheek. "That is one emotional reaction with which I _am_ somewhat familiar, Jim."

The captain laughed. Spock smiled but disquiet still lingered in his eyes. "Sorry." Kirk covered Spock's hand with his own. "I didn't mean to put a damper on your mood. I know that you don't like this diplomatic duty any more than I do. I'm sorry if I've made it more unpleasant for you."

Leaning forward, he kissed Spock gently on the lips. The kiss was intended to be an affectionate endearment, a soft brushing of flesh against flesh, something that was as common between them now as a raised eyebrow, a lock of recalcitrant hair falling across a forehead, a shared thought.

For a moment, the kiss went as expected.

And then something happened. Kirk could clearly feel it - a surge of awesome love and fierce possessiveness that seemed to flood from Spock's mind into his own, growing, catching upon itself until he thought it would smother him. The kiss began to lengthen, deepen, drawing such frightening power from deep within the Vulcan's consciousness that it literally took his breath away. _What the..._

Spock reached up and ran long fingers through his hair, pulling his head back, plunging his tongue into Kirk's mouth. Such blatant sexual aggression was rare for him, but, suddenly, feeling the wave of sensations wash through his own unguarded mind, the captain understood. He had, after all, been the first one to bring up the subject of danger, one guaranteed to get a rise out of Spock faster than any other. Especially if the danger was directed at himself.

From the beginning, his second-in-command had stood guard over him, hovering quietly in the background, waiting for the inevitable cry for help. Even in the beginning, when their relationship was strictly professional, that had been true. On more than one occasion he knew that Spock had violated direct Starfleet orders without so much as an instant's hesitation; risked life, limb and reputation as if he were risking nothing at all. There were times when rescue seemed hopeless, when even McCoy had given up. But not Spock. Never Spock. Somehow, the Vulcan had always found him and, taking his hand, had led him home again.

However, the quiet, methodical way he'd done all of this neatly obscured the savage fire that still, hidden though it was, flowed through his veins. For years, the masquerade of detachment had worked. Spock would repeatedly pull him from the jaws of death and behave as if the entire affair were little more than commonplace, a minor ruffling of calm Vulcan feathers.

And then one thing had changed. They had become lovers. And that had changed everything. Kirk well knew that with each passing day, as their bond strengthened and grew, the emotional side of Spock emerged just a bit more, leaving the staid and taciturn Vulcan a little farther behind. Five thousand year, after all, was not so very long ago.

 _And now_ , he thought with a mental growl, feeling his own erection swell at the thought of Spock's sexual dominance, almost frightening possessiveness, _I'm reaping the rewards, my ferocious Vulcan warrior. Go ahead. Guard me. Cover me with your protection. Wrap me in it. Smother me with it. Show me the other side - the primeval side._

Spock, of course, heard him and the result was even better than he'd expected. The Vulcan leaned forward, pushing him down against the bed. The kiss became more intense and Kirk felt himself falling into it, letting it bury him beneath its own unstoppable power. He could almost see Spock shed fifty centuries of social conditioning like a snake shedding its skin. The force of what lay beneath was quite overwhelming.

The Vulcan abruptly pulled away, his eyes simmering. "How much time do we have?" His voice was so low that it sounded like one long rumble.

Kirk searched his face, unsure if Spock, who always knew time down the last nanosecond, was teasing him. Dark eyes met his own. There were many emotions reflected in them. Teasing was definitely not one of them.

"I don't know." He gasped as Spock slipped one hand beneath his shirt, somehow found every erogenous zone within reach at the same time. Including, amazingly, some he hadn't even known until that instant were there.

His head began to swim. The fact that the Vulcan could seem so touchingly naive on some days and so confidently effective on others was at times most disorienting. "We're supposed to..."

And right now, Spock was in his expert mode. He moved to the foot of the bed and slipped off Kirk's pants before the captain could finish his sentence. "...get ready for the..."

Knelt between his legs and ran open hands along his groin and thighs, trailing his fingers against the sensitive flesh, watching with pleasure as the skin quivered beneath his touch. Kirk threw his head back against the pillow. "For god's sake, Spock, the kassiam, whatever the hell that is, will be here soon."

Spock's thoughts were clearly not on the kassiam. Leaning forward, he draped his forearms across Kirk's waist and, lowering his head, took the entire length of his penis in his mouth.

Kirk arched upward, digging his fingers into Spock's hair, pushing him down, his hips rising a good three inches off the bed.

Spock's response was almost painful. Without looking up he grasped Kirk's hands and held them hard against the mattress, the grip so tight it nearly cut off the circulation.

The doorbell rang.

Very slowly, Spock raised his head and turned seriously displeased eyes toward the door. Kirk watched him. Seeing the wild underside of the calm Vulcan scientist in private was one thing. It did, however, have certain negative characteristics, the prime of which was the far from benevolent look in the alien eyes right now.

"Hey." Putting his hands on either side of Spock's face, he gently turned him away from the hapless intruder in the hallway. "Hey, we'll finish this later, okay? You're going to have to become a civilized man again, I'm afraid. At least for a few hours."

Amusement flashed in those eyes then, driving away that hint of malevolence. The blackness began to retreat, folding in upon itself like the wings of a bird. Walls came in to take its place, seal it off, obscure the reality of its existence. Spock straightened up.

The knock came yet again, followed this time by the sound of a voice. Kirk turned his attention to the door. "If we don't answer it the Jarsinians are going to start to talk."

Spock lay down at his side and nuzzled his neck, reluctant, despite his regained composure, to let go. "They already talk," he murmured. "And quite incessantly."

Kirk laughed. Spock repressed a smile. Sitting up on the bed, he unconsciously began smoothing out his rumpled bangs. Kirk stood and quickly pulled on his discarded clothes. The knock came for the third time. "Come in," he shouted, straightening his tunic.

The tiny woman who had measured them earlier walked through the doorway, followed by another man carrying a garment over each arm. She stopped six feet before the captain and, pressing her palms together, bowed at the waist. Glancing up, she gave him a nasty scowl, clearly displeased at being forced to wait in the corridor. Reaching behind her, she waited as her attendant laid one of the two garments across her arm.

Holding the material reverently by the shoulders, she let the outfit fall to the floor. The irritated frown abruptly vanished. A golden smile took its place, spreading across her wrinkled face from one end to the other. "You like?" she asked, chest puffed out with pride.

The garment resembled more than anything else a tight-fitting and quite erotic jump suit. The color was a deep scarlet, the material velvet. The arms had been cut away, the front open at the top and tapering in a steep V to come to a point just above the waistband. The pants were tight, but flared out at the bottom. A golden chain draped loosely around the hips.

"It's beautiful," Kirk replied truthfully, recognizing that the cut of the material was designed to highlight the physique. _And it'll look damned good on you, Spock._

Seeing his reaction, the woman's glorious smile widened. Walking to his side, she held the outfit up against him, pressing the top of the shoulder against his own, nodding when the hem of the pants just brushed the edge of his boots. "Good," she whispered. Wrapping knarled fingers around the second garment, she moved to Spock's side and repeated the action. "Here, hold this," she commanded, taking one of the Vulcan's arms and shoving it against the garment's waistline.

Spock gave her a confused look but did as he was told.

The woman stood back, her gaze wandering up and down the stiff body. "Yes, yes," she said knowledgeably. "The color, it looks good on you. Contrasts with the hair and skin tone very nicely."

Spock's eyes focused squarely on the wall behind Kirk's head. A faint blush began to spread across his cheeks.

The woman approached him again and, laying the flat of one hand against his thigh, molded the material around his leg. The erection of a moment ago had not completely deflated. The hand paused, then felt again. Spock's face turned a very unbecoming shade of green.

The woman looked up, her fingers continuing a subtle, but quite thorough examination of the Vulcan's reproductive organs. Leaning forward, she stretched herself up on her toes and whispered in his ear. "Maybe later, you can come to my quarters, eh? I may be old but my memory is still good. I won't let something like **_that_** go to waste, I assure you." She laughed at his evident embarrassment.

Kirk moved forward. The native took one look at his face and knew at once that she'd gone too far. The teasing abruptly stopped. She shrugged. "I'm an old woman with a strange sense of humor, honored guests. I meant no offense." Casting Kirk a quick glance, she smiled. "The kassiam _does_ suit your friend well. My invitation won't be the only one he'll receive tonight. You wait and see. See if I'm not right."

The woman turned to go, her gaze falling one last time on the Vulcan's groin. "Impressive," she whispered under her breath as she left the room.

The door shut. Spock let the air out of his lungs. Kirk moved to his side. "Sorry," he mumbled, furious with the woman for embarrassing him like that. "If she'd been forty years younger and male, I would have knocked her teeth in for you."

"Vulcans do not approve of violence," Spock intoned solemnly.

Despite the sober words, there was a lightness there that Kirk detected immediately. He decided to play along. "What do you think, Spock? Think the old lady was right and you'll be propositioned right and left tonight." He fixed the Vulcan with a mischievous look. "And don't get any ideas about slipping off somewhere with one of the local lovelies. You're not the only one who's possessive, you know."

Spock sighed, but other than that, made no response.

***

The old woman was, in fact quite right. The looks began the instant the two men entered the dining room. And the captain had no doubts as to the reason why. Spock looked, quite simply, stunning. The outfit clung to his body like a second skin, outlining the chest muscles, the broad ribcage, tapering at his waist to curve around the narrow hips and highlight, unfortunately, the genitals that even Vulcan controls couldn't make disappear completely. The open front of the garment allowed the abundant chest hair to spill out in all its glory. The thick growth ended just below the fourth rib, forming a single symmetrical line that seemed to point directly toward the clearly visible bulge in his pants.

The room had quieted as they entered and someone, a female, made a soft cooing sound. Kirk shot his friend a quick glance. Spock might look gorgeous in the damned thing but he was plainly miserable. Another sound, a whistle this time, followed by laughter. They both distinctly heard someone say the word 'Vulcan.' Spock closed his eyes, tried very hard to ignore it.

The captain, for his part, once again cursed diplomacy.

Ocarias seemed not to notice. Or not to care. He escorted them to their table with an elaborate flourish. "Please. Sit. Sit."

The two men sat, the premier taking his place on one side, a heavily made-up woman of indeterminate age on the other. Wine almost immediately began to flow, followed by a staggering array of foods in every imaginable form. The captain took as much as was demanded by protocol. Spock took practically nothing.

Kirk slipped his hand beneath the table, resting it gently on one stiff thigh. Dark, apprehensive eyes flickered over to meet his own. The captain smiled. "We'll be laughing about this in a few weeks. You just wait and see."

Spock did not look convinced.

***

The sexual advances became more pronounced as the evening progressed and the alcohol continued to flow. Wine was supplanted by hard liquor within the first half hour and, by the time the final course was served, fully a third of the hall's occupants were well on their way to total inebriation.

Spock watched it all with an air of disgust. Drunkenness had always repelled him. He found it quite impossible to understand why sentient beings would willingly indulge in such an undignified waste of time. He recognized that escape into the false euphoria of drink was very attractive to many humanoids, that they seemed to find comfort in the illusory shedding of inhibitions. Even the captain was not immune to it. And yet, seeing these men and women behave in a fashion that would have shocked and embarrassed them only three hours before was disturbing, to say the least.

Kirk, of course, was not drinking tonight. The captain sat at his side, a long-empty wine glass before him, smiling when the need arose, wishing, no doubt, that he was on the bridge of the Enterprise. Occasionally, Kirk's hand would wander beneath the table to clasp his own, imparting with the touch a few much needed words of affection and understanding.

Premier Ocarias suddenly rose to his feet. "Captain," he mumbled, his words slurred. "You must mingle with our people now. They are anxious to speak with you, see you close..." He hiccupped, then grinned sheepishly. "close up. Come. I'll go with you."

Protocol demanded only one answer. Kirk gave him his best diplomatic smile and stood. "We'd be honored, Premier."

Spock rose and moved out into the room with him, anticipating the approaching event with all the enthusiasm of one of Doctor McCoy's physicals. They stopped before a cluster of very intoxicated women, most of whom were staring at him with open lust in their eyes. Someone whispered a comment that his sensitive hearing, much to his inner distress, did not miss and the entire group broke into riotous laughter. Goaded on by her companions, one sidled up next to him and ran her fingernails across his chest, speculating in rather lurid detail about the size of a Vulcan's reproductive organs. Spock's eyes widened with a very human expression of shock and dismay as the hand wandered down, ominously approached his waistband. Ocarias snickered. Another woman pushed up behind the first and stretched out her arm.

_This is fucking ridiculous._

He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he'd heard the captain swear like that but it was music to his ears right now as Kirk moved between them and took a step forward, forcing the entire group back by at least three feet. The women gave him identical befuddled looks but, seeing the gracious smile that now spread across his face, they quickly shrugged it off. It hardly mattered in any event. In their drunken state a man was a man, one just as good as the other. If Spock wouldn't play along, then clearly his more outgoing companion would.

Without so much as a glance in his direction, they turned their attention to the captain. A perfumed arm draped loosely around his neck. Painted nails traced an erratic pattern along his arms, his chest. Spock could see his jaw tighten, but the smile remained on his face and he did not move away.

Ocarias finally saw fit to break it up. Shoving a thick arm into the squirming mass, he eased the women back. "Ladies, ladies," he soothed. "You cannot expect to keep him all to yourselves. We must move on."

Moans of disappointment greeted the words. Clasping Kirk by the elbow, Ocarias steered him to another group of somewhat more sober individuals. One of the women reached out as the captain was moving off, making one final attempt to latch onto him. Spock gave her a withering look and she pulled her arm back and stumbled away.

The second group was far superior to the first and ten minutes of relatively coherent conversation followed. Spock listened, becoming aware as the minutes passed of a whispered argument going on a dozen feet behind him. A woman's voice hissed out muted accusations, followed by the lower sounds of a man, viciously calling her a shocking array of disreputable names.

Abruptly the noise level rose, became louder. Other conversations began to die down.

The woman glanced up. "See what you've done, you pig," she spat. "Now everyone's watching us!"

The man rose to his feet. "There's nothing they could overhear that they don't already know, Marisa. You've _slept_ with half the men in the room!"

The woman let out a shriek. Grabbing a knife lying on the table before her, she raised it above her head. The man backpedaled, sending a bystander to her knees. Turning to flee, he collided with the captain in his haste to escape.

"I'll kill you, you son-of-a-bitch!" The woman followed one step behind, the weapon clutched in her fist. The man screamed, grabbing Kirk and shoving him between himself and the knife.

Spock reacted instinctively, throwing his shoulder into the captain's side and knocking him away. Swinging his arm back, he tried to deflect the blow he knew was coming, but the woman had shifted her aim. The knife came at him from below, slashing a three inch tear in the center of his abdomen.

Pandemonium broke out. The woman was wrestled to the floor, the man crawling away, eyes enormous, jabbering that he wasn't at fault. Kirk regained his balance and raced to the Vulcan's side. Spock stood, unconsciously spreading his legs apart to keep his balance. He stared down at the hand clutched against his stomach, watching with a strange sense of detachment as it became covered with his own blood. He raised his head. "Jim...I seem to be...be..."

The room began to spin. He closed his eyes, felt Kirk's arm circle his waist, sensed the captain ease him to the floor. "Get a doctor, goddammit! Someone get a doctor!" The captain's distraught voice cut through the haze that was beginning to cloud his mind and he opened his eyes again. One of Kirk's hands rested on his brow, the other pressed against the wound, trying illogically to slow the blood loss.

"Jim..." he mumbled. "I am sorry...should have moved faster...."

Kirk held him close. "Shush. No, no. Don't talk like that. Just lie still." _Be all right, Spock. Please god. Be all right._

The plea came clearly through the link and he tried to focus on the face that was becoming hard to see. Someone, a stranger, knelt beside them and began to gently tear the kassiam from his body. Hands touched his shoulders, pushing him onto the floor, pulling him from the captain's arms. "Jim...?" He reached out. Kirk grasped his hand again. "Stay with me?" he whispered.

He couldn't see his face any longer, but through the touch, he could sense the tears. Then a million lights seemed to explode behind his eyes and even they slipped into the darkness.

***

Doctor Turan stormed back and forth before the premier's desk. The cavernous room was empty today and his footsteps echoed like gunshots against the walls. Spinning on one heel, he turned back. "You stupid fool! Your precious operative nearly _killed_ him!"

Ocarias blanched. "He moved too quickly...she tried to compensate and drove the knife too hard."

"Too hard!" the Klingon roared. "Too hard!" Taking a deep breath, he spread his hands out on the desk and leaned forward until he and the premier were practically nose to nose. "If she'd killed him, the entire operation would have been ruined. We couldn't chance using someone else in his place - not after his murder! The Federation would have been suspicious already. It would have been too dangerous."

Turan's eyes hardened, became like chips of ice. "This Vulcan is the perfect choice," he said, his voice laced with malevolence. "And my superiors would have been most unhappy if you had killed him. _Most unhappy._ "

Ocarias pulled away. "She's a trained operative," he protested weakly, trying to salvage something from the debacle or at least deflect the blame to someone else. "They both are. Even now, Kirk suspects nothing. He believes that they were drunk, having a fight. For that at least we can be grateful. And he _didn't_ die...."

Turan was ready to strangle him. "We wanted a minor wound." _Fucking, incompetent moron._ "One that would not attract the attention of the Enterprise's Chief Medical Officer, not a three inch gash in his stomach! Now Kirk will surely inform his ship's doctor. The duplicate will have to bear a similar wound or it will be uncovered immediately."

"Well, you can do that, can't you." Ocarias' tone was pleading, frightened.

The Klingon glared at him. "We can. But it's another variable and I don't _like_ variables. They cause even the best plans to fail. Already, this one has a bad smell to it."

Ocarias resisted the temptation to shrink down in his chair. "So, what do we do now?"

Turan looked at him as if he were a blathering idiot. "The plan remains the same except that your greedy little Doctor Barstow will take the tissue and blood samples that we need during surgery instead of in the emergency room as originally planned. And you will instruct him to keep his eyes on Kirk. I've spoken with my commander and your suspicions are not without foundation. If they are in fact lovers, it will necessitate a change of plans."

Ocarias shuddered at the words, at the coldly impersonal way the Klingon said them. "What do you mean, 'a change of plans'?"

Turan began walking toward the door. Just as he stepped from the room he swiveled his head around. "And remember, Ocarias," he growled, totally ignoring the man's question. "If you fail us again and this doesn't work, it'll be _your_ head on the block. _You'll_ be the one traveling back to the Empire in my ship 'like so much contraband,' as you so poetically put it. I doubt that you'll provide the challenge of the Vulcan, but you will provide entertainment, at the very least. Considerable entertainment, for longer than you care to think about. Far longer."

Ocarias looked like he was about to faint. The Klingon smirked at his pallor. "I'll see you plead for death. Beg for it, do anything for it, and still it will not come. You'll learn to curse your life before it's over. That will be your future if you fail us now."

On that ominous note, the Klingon left the room.

***

The waiting room was large, but, despite that, he found himself constantly running up against a wall. Turning on one heel, he strode the length of it again, stopping only when the blank white surface loomed directly before him.

His heart was hammering within his chest, the adrenaline surging through his veins with such intensity that he felt light-headed. His mouth was dry. Every few minutes, a wave of nausea raced through his stomach. _Damn it, Kirk. Relax. The injury wasn't **that** severe. And you'd **know** if something happened... if he..._

The words lodged in his mind, refusing to allow even that measure of reality. For the fifth time in as many minutes, he glanced at the chronometer on the wall. Spock had been in surgery for two hours and eighteen minutes. It felt like two days. Two years. The pacing began again.

Five minutes later the door opened and a white-robed nurse came into the room. Kirk tensed, hazel eyes wide. The woman smiled innocuously and passed through an adjacent doorway. For a single irrational instant, he seriously considered putting his fist through the wall.

Twenty minutes later the captain finally sat down. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, fingers laced together, and tried to gather up the fragments of his shredded composure. He should have been used to this. He'd been through it often enough, standing over a bed, usually in Sickbay, watching as Spock fought yet another battle between life and death. But, somehow, it felt different now. Perhaps because McCoy wasn't here. He keenly felt the doctor's absence, would have given a great deal to have his professional expertise right now. The thought of having strangers operate on Spock set his emotional nerves on edge.

A sound distracted him. He glanced up, but the noise was simply a clumsy orderly slamming a gurney against the wall outside. Looking down again, his gaze fell on his boots. The kassiam was gone now. It had been covered with Spock's blood and discarded with no reverence at all as soon as they'd wheeled the Vulcan into surgery and he thought of the old woman and her glorious smile. A seamstress and her creation. Such pride. The memory almost made him weep.

He was dressed in the clothes of a native, someone wordlessly handing him a shirt and pants moments after Spock had vanished, and he'd numbly put them on, anxious to get the kassiam, heavy and wet, away from him. But the boots, the boots remained. Starfleet boots. Regulation black, not as shiny as Spock's, but then again, he'd never been as much of a stickler for neatness. Drops of green, dried now to a dull grey, covered them. Blood. Spock's blood. He could hardly bear to look at it, but for some reason had not cleaned it off.

The sight turned his thoughts back to the scene that was now carved into his soul. Spock standing before him, legs spread impossibly wide in an ultimately futile attempt to stay on his feet. And the blood. He knew that, realistically, there was not that much, but still, it seemed to be everywhere. Running through those beautiful fingers, turning the vibrant scarlet kassiam a grotesque shade of purple.

The captain lowered his head and stared down at the floor. But he didn't see the floor. He saw Spock. Those dark eyes, looking at him, filled with surprise more than anything else. There was a flash of pain through the link; a fleeting thing, gone almost as soon as it arrived and he remembered thinking that, even then, standing there with such a grievous injury, Spock had somehow managed to block most of his suffering. _Funny how the mind works in a situation like that. A million thoughts can fly through it in the wink of an eye. It's as if, in a way, time stands still. And such small things can seem so important. When those paramedics laid him on that gurney, someone messed up his hair. That made me so angry. A part of my mind was so angry about that. Such an unimportant thing, but I remember thinking 'Spock wouldn't have liked that.' Funny how the mind works._

Reaching up, he laid his hand across the shoulder where Spock's head had rested for those few moments. Tears began to gather in the back of his eyes, but he savagely pushed them away. The premonition. _God damn it_. He _knew_ something was going to happen. Why in hell hadn't he acted upon it? Captain's intuition. How many times had he spoken of it, used it to justify an otherwise illogical and impulsive action. Even Spock had given it credence. The sense of impending disaster was strong enough for him to voice it, strong enough for him to know, somewhere in his mind, that it involved Spock somehow.

And yet, what had he done with his premonition? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He'd stood back and let it play itself out without so much as a word of warning, shrugging it away with bland reassurances that it was due to his ship, the Daphne, the state of the world. The weather, for gods sake.

His fingers tightened around his shoulder until the grip began to hurt. And he thought of the dark head resting here, of the blood that flowed out onto the floor beneath the two of them, of the strange sort of feelings he was picking up through the link in those few seconds before the doctors separated them. It was only later, during the wild ride to the hospital that he had understood what the feelings were.

Relief. _Dear lord, Spock. It was relief that the wound had once again fallen on you and not me._ His mind played back the countless other wounds, pains, torments the Vulcan had endured to spare him; a knife wound here, the marks of a whip somewhere else. McCoy had removed most of the scars, but some Spock had wanted to keep. Illogical decision, one that he never explained, but one that Kirk understood nevertheless. For the marks were, quite simply, evidence of his love, spreading across his body like a roadmap, tracing out the course of their friendship, their relationship, the many years they'd shared.

And then there were the others, the wounds that were far deeper, but left no visible marks at all. They were the worst of all. _Oh Spock, why didn't you stay where you were and let **me** take the knife this time? Why does it always have to be you?_

The door opened, cutting off his thoughts. He looked up and saw a middle-aged doctor standing in the open doorway. "Captain Kirk?" the man asked. His expression was placid, revealing nothing. Kirk had seen McCoy's face wear the same detached, professional look when he was about to deliver some particularly bad news. The captain stood up, his heart stilled in his chest.

The native gave him a faint smile. "I'm Doctor Jonathan Barstow. I led the surgical team that operated on Commander Spock."

Kirk inhaled sharply, realizing only now that he had momentarily stopped breathing. For a second, he found himself quite unable to speak. Then he asked the question that had been tormenting him for hours. "My friend...is he all right?" His voice was so level that it actually surprised him.

The doctor's smile broadened. "Yes, Captain. He'll going to be just fine."

 _Thank god. Thank god_. Kirk closed his eyes and let the air out of his lungs. When he opened them again, it was to see Barstow giving him a very discerning look. The native inclined his head toward the couch. "Please, Captain, sit down."

Feeling strangely weak at the knees, Kirk was quick to take him up on his offer. Moving to the couch, he lowered himself down.

Barstow sat at the far end, a good twelve feet away. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees, a medical chart held loosely in one hand. Kirk gave it a quick glance. He saw Spock's name inscribed across the top but nothing more.

Barstow lifted the chart, tilting it away from him. "Your friend is in the recovery room," he said, his manner a bit more impersonal than a moment ago. "The knife wound was approximately 3.8 centimeters deep. It penetrated the skin just below the twelfth rib and produced a lateral tear nine centimeters in length across the abdomen, doing considerable damage to the abdominal muscle in the process. That's the reason he was in surgery for so long." Barstow paused. "We had to do fairly extensive suturing of the separated muscle tissue, but, considering his relatively young age and somewhat," he grinned, "energetic lifestyle, I wanted to be certain that we did it as perfectly as possible to avoid his having any problems with the muscle later on."

Kirk eyed him steadily, wondering just why the doctor knew so much about Spock's 'energetic lifestyle' in the first place. He had thought earlier, during the chaos in the emergency room, that Barstow was simply the doctor on duty. Apparently, he was wrong. The tiny red alert that had been chirping on and off since their arrival on this godforsaken planet began to sound once again.

Barstow seemed oblivious to the direction of his thoughts. He looked down at the blood-stained boots, an expression of sympathy on his face. "You've known each other for a long time?" There was a hint of inflection at the end of the sentence, although it was clear that he already knew the answer.

Kirk responded nevertheless. "Yes."

The doctor frowned. "I'm sorry about all of this, Captain. I know how upsetting it must have been for you - to see someone you care about subjected to such a violent attack."

 _No, you don't know. You have no idea. No idea at all_. "It's not the first time, Doctor," he heard himself say aloud

Barstow watched him in silence for a moment, then glanced down at his chart once again. "He'll be regaining consciousness in about four hours. The anesthesia will make him groggy at first, but that's to be expected and will pass after twenty minutes or so. With abdominal injuries, we like to have the patients up on their feet the first day - the attempt is medically important, helps keep the muscles active and promotes healing, but I've found that it's still a rather traumatic experience. So you might want to stay nearby to provide moral support."

No need to worry about that. He had no intention of going anywhere.

Barstow was studying him rather intensively now, the doctor's perceptive stare he'd seen so often on McCoy's face. Sliding the medical chart under one arm, he rose to his feet. "Would you like to see him?"

The words sent a surge of electricity shooting up his spine and he had to consciously resist the impulse to clench his fists. "Yes, Doctor," he replied evenly. "I would."

He couldn't, however, keep the look from his eyes, the strange, haunted look of unbearable tension and fear. It was muted, concealed behind decades of Starfleet training and discipline, but not completely hidden. And Doctor Barstow was trained to notice such things. He saw it, but did not let that recognition show on his face. "Very well, Captain. Follow me."

***

Jonathan Barstow escorted his visitor to the recovery room without saying another word. Despite the man's obvious fatigue, he could clearly sense the strength of will, the power that seemed to surround him like an aura. Kirk's stride widened and, when they passed down an adjacent hallway and the large red sign, 'Recovery Room,' became visible, he saw the momentary hesitation, heard the breath catch in his throat. And he knew that, had he been able to monitor the captain's heart, the beat would have been far above normal. Obvious signs. A first-year medical student would have been able to diagnose their meaning.

They reached the room. He pushed the door open and watched as the man walked inside. The room contained many cubicles, providing privacy and quiet for the patients within them, but Kirk didn't hesitate for a second, moving instantly toward the third entrance as if directed there by some invisible signpost. Barstow followed him, standing by the doorway, watching in silence as he moved to sit, with infinite care, on the edge of the bed. His eyes flashed back and forth from Spock's face to the panel above him as he lowered himself down, clearly fearful of upsetting the various tubes and sensors that monitored the Vulcan's body readings.

For several minutes, he did nothing but sit and look down at the man in the bed. Then, reaching out, he took one limp hand within his own. He held it, separating the fingers, studying each one individually. Barstow heard him speak to his unconscious companion, but his voice was low and the doctor was unable to understand what he said.

"Remember." The premier's words came back to him. "Kirk is a very perceptive man. Watch him. Tell him as little as possible. And if you notice anything of a more...personal nature in their relationship, let me know immediately."

Jonathan Barstow was good at his job. He was a gifted physician with an uncanny sixth sense when it came to diagnosis and treatment. However, in a trait he shared with many medical professionals from one end of the galaxy to the other, the sanctity of life was not, and never had been, his primary motivation. For Barstow, medicine was a tool, a skill that he utilized to take him where he wanted to go. To the top. To a position of wealth and authority reserved for very few on this world. Barstow was determined to carve a place for himself there. And if it meant betraying the wounded man and his human friend, then that was a price he was more than willing to pay. They were, after all, aliens, the two of them.

 _Aliens_ , he thought as he watched Kirk lean over the Vulcan and gently smooth out his ruffled hair. _And lovers too, I'll bet_. There were, he well understood, some universals in the galaxy. The look of anguished love on the human's face was one of them.

Kirk abruptly straightened up and turned back to him, apparently surprised that he was still standing there. Barstow smiled. "I'm sorry, Captain. I didn't mean to eavesdrop. It just pleases me to see that I've brought such happiness to another being. Makes the whole job worth it."

Kirk smiled faintly and Barstow could see that there were tears in his eyes. "I understand, Doctor. Thank you."

Barstow began to turn away, then glanced back. _One final test, just to be certain_. "You'll be staying here with him - all night?"

"Yes."

Of course. No question. Not even a hint of uncertainty and the doctor expected no less. He inclined his head. "I'll arrange to have a bed set up for you, then. I'll be back first thing in the morning. Good night, Captain."

"Good night, Doctor."

Barstow stepped out into the dim corridor and let the door slide silently back. Then, without so much as a moment's hesitation, he went directly to his office and made a direct call to Premier Ocarias himself.

***

It was a roller coaster. No. He shook his head. It just _felt_ like a roller coaster. Up and down. Round and round. Spinning wildly, sending his thoughts in a thousand different directions at once.

But it all made no sense. He had never been on a roller coaster. Had never even seen one. Archaic form of human diversion; pointless, frightening, dangerous.

 _It isn't real_. A part of his mind whispered the words, vague, confused but understandable nevertheless. _It isn't real. It's only a dream. Only a dream..._

Somehow he knew that the words were true, filtering in through the mental haze from the world of reality. _Reality_. The sound had meaning. Instinctively, he latched onto it, pulling it back, using it to help clear the mist. It was, he suddenly realized, the essence of who he was, the rock-hard foundation upon which everything else was built. Reality. Reason. Logic. _I am a scientist. I am a scientist._

The words blazed before him like a neon sign, then began to fade. He could see the trail they laid behind as they moved through the fog. 'Follow me,' they seemed to say. 'Come back. Come back home.'

A picture began to form. A room. A large room filled with people. Danger, not directed at himself, but somehow that only made it worse. A sharp pain in the stomach, but the danger was gone now and the pain, strangely, did not hurt. Something wet covering his hands and then the tears. They broke his heart, tore him to pieces, and he would have done anything to make them go away but he was helpless, trapped in an unresponsive body, his mind slipping off into the emptiness.

Suddenly the room was gone, the images fractured, and he knew he was losing it, this unseen, intoxicating force. _No_. He wanted it to stay, needed it to stay. Using every ounce of strength he had, he fought to free himself from his inner paralysis. To touch it again.

Slowly, the picture stabilized, began to harden. Funneling his thoughts into one single line, he struggled against whatever had mired him in this swirling hallucination but it was so hard and he was so tired. Shivering, he pulled back, folded into himself again.

A light. He raised his head. A blinding light hitting his eyes, coming from far above, shining down on his upturned face. 'Come.' That voice again, the tone harsher this time, urging him on, and he found himself responding instinctively, compelled by a need to obey, to do as it said. Stretching himself to his full height he reached out, reached up. The light came closer to him or he to it. He couldn't tell which and suddenly knew that the question had no relevance in any event.

The voice grew louder. Another moment, another step, the words becoming clearer and then suddenly he could see him at last, backlit by the sun. A golden thing. His focal point. The center of his universe.

 _Jim?_ The name floated past, lighter than air. _Can you hear me?_ His own words wove chaotically inside of his head and he wondered distantly if they made any sense at all. Then the thought faded away and he knew it didn't matter, not really. The captain would understand him whether the words made any sense or not.

Gentle fingers drifted against his face, the voice filling him, seducing him. _Yes, Spock_ , it said. _I can hear you._

The fog was gone now. The voice enveloped him completely, pulling him up from the void, using its strength to counterbalance his own weakness. Very slowly Spock opened his eyes.

The first thing he saw was the same as the last thing he remembered seeing before the darkness yanked him away, a vision he had carried with him into the blackness of simulated death, the one thing about the captain's face that he loved more than anything else.

_Beautiful eyes. So full of life, so full of expression. You have the most beautiful alien eyes._

Those eyes swept around him, swallowing him up whole, filled with a mixture of melancholy and euphoria. Such a peculiar combination. Only a human could mingle such contradictory emotions together into such an even, seamless tapestry.

He tried to lift his arm, but his body seemed to be made of lead. The captain saw, gathered the nerveless hand within his own. "Spock," he said simply. Just "Spock." Nothing more.

He blinked his eyes. It seemed like the only thing he had the energy to do.

"How do you feel?" The voice was warm, the affection carried within it caressing him like a lover. Kirk, he knew, could sense his feelings through the touch, but, like so many humans, he still needed the reality of words. And the captain's need gave him the strength to answer.

"Tired." A colossal understatement. "I am...somewhat tired, Jim."

A sympathetic look passed over Kirk's face. "I know." Leaning forward, he laid his other hand against one cheek. "Are you in any pain?"

Spock hesitated, then shook his head. The captain watched him in silence for a moment, recognizing the lie for what it was. He brought his other hand down, covered his own with them both, the grip tightening until it actually began to hurt. Abruptly, realizing what he was doing, he let go. Closing his eyes, the captain took a deep breath.

"Jim?" He sensed Kirk's emotional turmoil, tried to deflect it. "What has happened?"

The captain smiled faintly, took the lifeline he'd thrown to him. "You're in the Dorsin Hospital." He gathered himself together, indicated their surroundings with a tilt of the head. "It's about four miles from the government center. Your doctor's name is Barstow, at least he's the one who operated on you last night. Says you have a four inch tear in the abdomen but due to your thick Vulcan hide the damage was not really that serious and you're going to make a full recovery."

A pause. "My words, not his," he amended. "About the hide, that is."

Then the captain kissed him; a faint brushing of the lips. "You get some rest now. Barstow's a real slave driver. He says you have to get up on your feet before the day is out. He'll probably have you doing laps in the corridor before dinner."

 _Laps in the corridor?_ One eyebrow rose by a fraction of an inch, a feeble, weak motion, but one that the captain did not miss. It was a gesture that affected him more than any other, an idiosyncrasy that, for some reason, held a special place in his heart. Spock watched his face tighten as he fought once again to keep his pent-up grief and emotion at bay.

 _Oh please, Jim_ , he thought sorrowfully. _Do not cry. You know I cannot bear to see you cry._

Kirk heard the unspoken plea. He stiffened, forced the tears back to wherever it was they came from. Reaching down, he ran the tip of one finger along Spock's eyebrow, stroking its length a dozen times over. "You gave me quite a scare last night. You know that, don't you?"

The captain clearly expected no reply and Spock gave him none. He lay silently, watching his face. There was something in the eyes that troubled him, something more than sorrow and joy, grief and a staggering sense of relief. He turned his attention to the touch, the empathic sensations it brought with it. Slowly he peeled back the layers concealing the emotion that lay so far below until, finally, it revealed itself.

Guilt. A black sense of guilt laying across the captain's shoulders like a leaden shroud, crushing any joy he felt at Spock's recovery to atoms. And, like the captain, Spock, too, understood. Kirk had always felt responsible when a crewmember was killed or injured, even if he was miles away at the time. _A captain is responsible for the lives of his crew...and for their deaths._ The words weren't his, but they might just as well have been. The premonition. That ghostly shadow of warning that had so worried him the day before. The fact that he couldn't possibly have foreseen what would happen made no difference at all. Spock knew him well enough to realize what he felt. He _should_ have known, should have done _something_ to prevent it. Kirk was, in many ways, a very predictable person, holding himself accountable for every pain, every sorrow felt by those around him. Took the weight of the world, the universe on his shoulders, felt pain when others suffered for his mistakes.....The litany went on and on and, standing right in the middle of it, feeling the cloak of protectiveness on a level equal to the Enterprise, was his first officer. His lover. Most of all his friend.

Spock felt his heart soften with compassion. His own reaction, he knew, would have been exactly the same. "Jim?"

Anguished hazel eyes met his own.

"Do you want to know something?"

"What?" The voice was low, muted, suffused with sadness.

"I love you. Did I ever tell you that?"

There was a flash of surprise in those expressive eyes. Then Spock watched as the sorrow, the guilt-ridden sorrow, began to fade to nothingness. Kirk leaned down and kissed him once again, laying his head against Spock's shoulder, fighting off the urge to crush him in his arms. "Yes," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Yes you have, my friend. Once or twice."

***

The stranger known by most of the people here as Goras Turan walked into the office and shut the door. He could sense the presence of the other person in the room, permeating the air with the scent of his own terror. The smell disgusted him.

"Well? Well! Didn't I tell you? Didn't I warn you?"

The voice was agitated, a high-pitched wail that grated against cold Klingon nerves. Turan turned around and fixed the premier with a piercing stare. "I agree," he said. "We have a problem. It is not an insurmountable one, however. The plan can still be salvaged."

Ocarias rose to his feet. "Salvaged! They're lovers, for god's sake. And on top of that, they're probably bonded!"

"We don't _know_ that."

"What in the hell do you want them to do, carry a printed sign down the corridors? I saw it. Barstow saw it. Maybe the mistake my operative made was a blessing in disguise. Now you can forget this entire scheme of yours and leave. You know as well as I do that Kirk will spot that double in the first five minutes. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if he senses something already!"

"The plan will not be terminated, Ocarias."

Black eyes stared into his own; merciless eyes that reflected nothing but an icy calculating purpose. A shiver race down the native's spine. "What do you mean?" A foolish question. He already knew the answer, had known it, in fact, since yesterday.

"Kirk will be killed."

A simple, declarative statement. No inflection, no modulation in tone. No room for arguments. The Klingon definition for 'a change of plans.' Ocarias felt his face turn totally white.

Seeing his reaction to the words, Turan actually smiled, an evil smile that sent Ocarias' skin crawling. Walking to his side, he leaned forward in the same domineering stance the premier had come to expect. "We will arrange an accident. The construct will be ready in eight hours. Therefore, in seven hours and forty-five minutes, a tragic accident will take place in the corridor directly outside the Vulcan's room."

Turan sat in the chair behind him and crossed his legs, his pose casual and relaxed. "A patient in heart failure will be brought down the corridor. The cart will overturn, spilling the unfortunate man to the ground. In the ensuing commotion, Kirk will come out of the room. And, being the noble creature that he is, he will, of course, attempt to help. The patient," he raised an eyebrow at the stunned and silent premier, "will be a real one, you understand. Some unlucky hospital resident who, after an injection of our making, will go into cardiac arrest. And, in his last moments of life, he'll serve our noble cause. Kirk will see him gasping and convulsing on the floor, will try to aid him and in so doing will accidentally hit the cardiostimulator that was, unfortunately, left on when the cart fell. Poor man will be electrocuted and die instantly. And," Turan leaned forward and his serpentine smile grew larger, "it may actually _help_ our plan. If any changes are noted in the duplicate, it will simply be attributed to grief. If they are, in fact, lovers, such an emotional reaction will not be doubted." Turan laughed at the irony.

"No!" Ocarias was beside himself. Abducting the Vulcan was one thing but this was murder. Cold-blooded murder. "Please. You can't do it! You're acting as if Kirk were an ensign, damn it! But he is not. He's a captain. A Starfleet captain. Federation agents will be crawling all over this city once they hear he died under circumstances like that! Especially after what happened to his first officer. They're not fools. They know that 'accidents' involving someone of his rank and position could well be something else entirely."

Turan gave him a look of undisguised loathing. "We've come too far to stop now. The construct is already forming. It will not go to waste. And, as for Kirk's demise, it will be handled so that no suspicion falls on you. We've had experience in such things. Starfleet will believe that the death was accidental. You concern yourself about nothing."

Ocarias sat heavily in his chair. His head ached, pounding like a sledgehammer inside his skull. "What do you want me to do?" he asked wearily, knowing that he really had no choice. He was far too deeply implicated in the scheme to hope to back out now.

Turan stood up. "Once this business with Kirk is taken care of, you're to move the prisoner...." He rubbed his chin with one thick hand as another thought came to him. "It must be done quickly. The moment Kirk is dead, take him out. Bring him Marcian's labs." He saw the puzzlement in the premier's eyes. "There have been rumors about Vulcan bondings flying around for decades," he said by way of explanation. "No one knows for sure if they're factual or legend. Some say that if one member of a bonded pair dies, the other soon follows. Others claim that isn't always the case. And, even if these two aren't bonded some of our records indicate that, since they're so closely linked and have been for so long the Vulcan may die in any event." He frowned, concerned now. "The sooner we get this done the better. In fact, just before the human dies, have one of your doctors sedate him so he won't know. Keep him under. Can't rightly will himself to death if he's dead to the world, now can he?"

Turan smiled at his choice of words, but then his eyes darkened yet again. "A pity if he were to die on me, however," he said, more to himself than to his unwilling companion. "I _am_ so looking forward to the trip home."

The Klingon shrugged. No matter. If he died, he died and he doubted the man would break anyway. Just so long as he lived long enough for the mental transfer.

Unconsciously one hand brushed against his shirt pocket, felt the tiny shape within, something so valuable he carried it with him always. The central player in all of this. A microchip scarcely a millimeter across, far too small to show up on routine Starfleet medical exams, labored on by the best minds in the Empire for years now. Instructions for the construct, the things he/it was ordered to do once the excitement settled down. Download files, provide descriptions of battle cruiser configurations, their strengths and weaknesses and how many there were. Names of the leaders of the High Council and where they lived. Family members, especially children. So many things. A thousand things. A million. The young Klingon licked his lips. Even if the subterfuge only lasted a short time the damage could be incalculable.

"There can be no error, Ocarias." He fixed the man with an unforgiving look, knew he and his bumbling minions were the one glaring weakness in this chain. The Empire's alibi but it necessarily required he stay behind the scenes, let the locals perform the dirty work, work that they could so easily botch. It wasn't such a hard thing to do, after all. Only two lives were involved and he, personally, had killed thirty-eight. And lost not a moment's sleep over a single one.

Black eyes narrowed. A simpleton could do what he demanded of Ocarias. Failure here would reflect very poorly on him, would likely end any chance of advancement he had in the Klingon military. And he didn't like to lose. If this moron brought him down he'd make damned sure the fool went down with him. Strap him to an examination table and torture the life out of him, his ship cruising home at a leisurely warp one. It would help pass the time if nothing else.

Ocarias seemed to read his thoughts. He turned a deathly pale, began to stare at the floor.

"Be sure everything is set up and ready to go," he growled, seeing the man flinch at his words. "I want no mistakes. Once the human is killed, you'll bring the Vulcan to me. I want him in the lab within ten minutes of the man's death. Understand?"

The premier nodded without comment or protest, kept his eyes averted as Turan gave him one last, withering glare before storming from the room, slamming the door hard as he left. A moment of blessed silence followed but it did nothing to ease Ocarias' ravaged soul. Lowering his head against his folded arms, he tried to hold himself together, wishing with every cell of his body that he had never heard of the word crysallium.

***

The three men were silent, almost breathless. The only sound in the room was the faint humming of the computers. One man broke away from the others and approached the circular metal platform. Lifting up his arm, he stretched out his fingers, but somehow couldn't bring himself to make contact.

The second moved to his side. "You see, Marcian," he said softly. "It lives."

The doctor's eyes widened as he watched the chest rise and fall. The skin was hairless now, the figure incomplete. The features were still forming, molding themselves into the exact likeness carried within the chemical memory of the DNA helix. The bones were solid, the organs already in place. Even the last minute readjustment was visible in the newly-formed skin; a three inch tear in the abdominal cavity that, due to an abrupt change of plans, would no longer be needed.

Marcian watched in fascination as the fingers grew before his eyes, expanding outward as the tissue beneath the surface doubled in size. Long bones surged forward in a burst of growth and the figure stretched up, adding another two inches to its height. It was like watching a huge, adult child being formed in an invisible womb, growing from a thin ball of unrecognizable tissue to this. Conception to adulthood in a single day. Beautiful, awesome. Almost enough to make him forget the dark purpose behind what they were doing.

"The protein balance." Turan whispered in his ear. "It makes all the difference."

Doctor Marcian nodded. It did, indeed, make all the difference. This construct, unlike his own pathetic, doomed creations, was quite visibly alive. He could see the enormous heart hammer with impossible speed, the blood pulsing through sturdy Vulcan veins, the chest move as the powerful lungs, adapted to live in a world this unnatural creation would never see, pulled the air in and out in a steady, regular motion.

Standing upright on a platform designed to conduct the continual flow of genetic information, the duplicate rested, eyes closed, body rigid. Some peculiarity about the process made the face form first, detailing itself into a striking model of its original even as the lower extremities were little more than formless shapes. The tubes and feeders that brought life to the lifeless tissue had been moved down, following the path of the development, connecting now to the hips, legs and ankles. Stretching back like a hundred umbilical cords, they hummed continually with life, feeding data to the growing organism, monitoring the rate of cell division, blood production, organ development. Sending a hundred thousand messages through every second. Tissue formed, grew. Brain cells developed, multiplied. It was stunning and faintly terrifying at the same time.

"The body is developing quickly. The next phase will be ready to begin in a little over six hours."

Marcian looked away from his ungodly creation. The Klingon had no right to take his joy at what he had done and crush it in the light of reality. Watching the thing grow, he had been able to forget for a time, forget about the man it mimicked so perfectly, forget about what he was really doing. The ugly words only brought the memory back to his conscious thoughts. And he didn't want it there.

Marcian shut him out, turned back to study the face, a strange perfection amidst the glistening, unformed body beneath it. There was already a nobility about it, a power and beauty that he could not deny. A peculiar combination of strength and softness; the angular shape of the jaw offset by...what? He approached the figure once again and studied the hooded eyes, the cheeks, the mouth. But still he could not define just what it was that counterbalanced the undeniable severity of the face. A gentleness somewhere, a lingering, faint softness that had no definable location. The eyebrows were part of it, as was the silky blackness of the hair, but it was more than that. Much more. It was, he suddenly realized, more than a nobility of face. It was a nobility of spirit. The fact that the construct already possessed this same feature was sobering indeed. The duplication would, he feared, be even better than his merciless Klingon overseer had reason to expect. Reason to hope.

 _You are a man with much to live for_ , he thought with a trace of sorrow. _Already I can see it in your face, a promise that is carried right down to your very cell structure_. His gaze swept across the flesh, saw the lips twitch in response to some hidden stimulus, caught a glimpse of eyes moving beneath translucent lids. _Are you dreaming, my friend? How is it possible for you to dream when you have no mind? What do you see, I wonder? Blackness? Emptiness? Betrayal?_

Abruptly, the figure shuddered, a minor rippling of the skin. He knew what caused it, an overload in the nerve endings, shorting themselves out against one another. Had seen it before. But this time, for some reason, the involuntary reaction frightened Jeffrey Marcian. He was suddenly gripped with the illogical fear that the creature would turn its head toward him and open its eyes. He knew what they would look like, of course. Had read it in the genetic code. Brown, small eyes really, for such a strong face. And yet, he suddenly knew, those eyes would cut right through him, tear him to pieces.

Turan, apparently sensing his sudden fright, laid a heavy hand on one shoulder. "You don't have to look at him, Marcian." The words were harsh and soothing at the same time, carrying both the hints of sympathy and ruthlessness.

How did he know? How could he possibly know? Marcian looked back into those cold black eyes, eyes so very different from the ones he'd just seen in his own mind. "The real one will be kept blindfolded, Doctor. We have found that it serves a two-fold purpose. It increases the sense of helplessness, makes the resistance weaken faster and also carries certain psychological advantages for the scientists involved. We have, naturally, experimented with the technique before coming to you. Even _our_ scientists, some of them at least, have shown a reluctance to look at the eyes of their subjects. Strange that they seem to hold such power. I could never understand their aversion to it. I have always _enjoyed_ looking my victims in the eye."

Marcian felt a scream rise in his throat. Turan saw it and smiled. "By tomorrow, it will all be over, my friend. You can go on vacation, drink and whore yourself into oblivion and try to get my smell from your nostrils. Your ghosts," he inclined his head toward the silent figure on the platform, "will be gone. Both of them."

Marcian turned away, the Klingon's quiet laughter searing into his soul, ripping his conscience to shreds.

***

Two male nurses stood on one side of the bed, the captain of the Enterprise on the other. "All right." The low, even tones of Jonathan Barstow's voice cut through the air. "Let's get him on his feet."

With infinite care Kirk eased Spock up to a sitting position. Barstow clearly saw him flinch as the Vulcan's impassive face tightened in pain, one arm moving up to curl protectively, reassuringly, around the other man's back. The Vulcan leaned into him, resting a forehead wearily against one shoulder.

"Careful." Barstow's voice was gentle, his attention focused solely on the human. "Just take it one step at a time, Commander." Kirk looked up at him. Spock's eyes remained closed. The dark head lying so naturally against the captain's shoulder nodded faintly in response.

Both nurses reached out to grab the patient's arms. Kirk stopped them with a look. "I'll do it."

The men exchanged glances, but didn't contest the statement. They walked off to stand a few feet away.

Spock tensed. Abruptly, Kirk raised his hand and, splaying his fingers out, laid them across the side of the Vulcan's face. For a moment, neither of the two men moved. Then, before his eyes, Barstow could see Spock visibly rally, some of his pallor fade away. He shook his head, but the peculiar, startling vision did not change. There was a definite improvement, a distinctive sensation of strength that was not there a moment before.

The captain's hand came down. "All right," he whispered, more to Spock than to anyone else. "We're ready."

He stood, his friend rising unsteadily beside him. Kirk's arm tightened its grip as Spock's head dropped down to conceal the unmistakable signs of weakness. "Lean on me," he said, his gaze never straying from his companion.

Long fingers gripped the edge of the captain's shirt. Spock took a deep breath and raised his head, lips pressed together. Slowly, tentatively, he took a step forward.

Barstow could see his knees buckle but the captain held him upright. They stood for a moment in silence, Kirk staring at Spock, Spock staring at the wall. Finally the captain spoke, his expression one of frustration and anger. "Yes, damn it!"

The doctor watched, having no idea what was going on. Spock glanced down and shook his head once. The human's eyes hardened. "Yes." He said the word more slowly this time, a whispered command, and even Barstow could sense that there was no room for argument in his tone.

For nearly twenty seconds, the two men stared at one another before the Vulcan weakened and gave in. With visible reluctance, he nodded. "Very well."

Kirk allowed himself a faint smile of victory, although it was clear that he had no intention of losing in this mysterious dispute. Abruptly, the smile faded as his mouth contorted in pain. He sucked in his breath and stifled a groan, his face turning a ghastly shade of grey. Instinctively one hand reached up to lay across his abdomen. Sweat began to bead out on his forehead.

 _What in the hell is going on?_ Barstow stepped forward. "Captain, are you all right?"

Kirk nodded but did not look up. Quickly, sensing the doctor's approach, he raised one hand in the air. "Yes...yes."

Barstow read the invisible warning to stay away and halted. He turned his attention to Spock, noting at once the peculiar look in his eyes. It seemed strange, out of place in that normally unreadable face although he had no idea why. The Vulcan lifted his chin in the air and took another step, his movements slow but fluid, his expression devoid of suffering. Reaching back he grasped Kirk by the hand. "Enough, Jim. Thank you."

The captain straightened, his expression eased somewhat, but Barstow noted that Spock did not release his hand. Dark eyes glanced down to meet hazel ones.

If Jonathan Barstow had any lingering doubts about the nature of their relationship, the look on the Vulcan's face dispelled them completely.

***

One of Jarsin's twin moons was beginning to set. They'd moved Spock to a private room a few hours before, one with a large picture window, and he stood before it now, watching as the satellite slipped beneath the distant horizon, a horizon largely obscured by steel gray buildings, spirals of dust picked up by the frigid wind and blown against the sky, the thick, ominous front of an advancing storm system. Reaching out, he touched the pane. The glass, as he knew it would be, was cold. Very cold. "Looks like snow," he said softly.

Spock shifted his attention to the window. "Indeed. I would calculate the odds to be approximately 87%."

Kirk laughed. It felt good to slip back into their familiar, public pose once more. Almost good enough to wipe away the horror of the day before. "You feel like getting up again?" he asked, turning back to face the Vulcan directly. "Barstow says the more you move, the better off you'll be."

Spock did not, in fact, feel like moving. The bed was soft, the captain's presence filling the room with warmth and comfort. But if Kirk thought he should get up, then get up he would. Kicking the blankets to one side, he began to stand.

The captain was at his side instantly, sliding one strong arm around his waist. "Here, let me help you. Contrary to what most of the Enterprise crew thinks, you're not Superman, you know

One eyebrow rose. "Superman?"

Kirk repressed a smile. "Never mind. Just let me get a grip on you before you hit the deck."

"Hit the what?"

Kirk paused and looked up. Spock's eyes were bright with amusement. "English is a most extraordinary language," he commented dryly.

"And Vulcan, I suppose, has no idioms?"

His question received no answer and he didn't, in truth, expect one. Easing Spock to his feet, he helped him walk over to the window. They stood for a moment, arms around one another's waist, gazing out into the night sky. A single snowflake floated down before them, catching itself on a gust of wind and adhering to the windowpane. Others followed, tiny specks of filigreed crystals falling gently to the ground. It was a sight that the captain always loved, a fond recollection of his youth on the frozen plains of Iowa.

"Snow," he whispered, his mind wandering back into a hundred different memories.

"Indeed."

The storm gathered strength, slowly whiting out the buildings across the empty courtyard, casting everything in that muted, diffused light so peculiar to snowfalls. "How much to you think we'll get?"

"Impossible to calculate without more data," Spock replied without hesitation. "It would depend on the intensity of the low pressure system, the varying temperature and density of the air, the speed with which the system directly behind this one is moving..." A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"I'd guess five inches. What do you think?"

"Six."

The captain shook his head. "I hate to say it but McCoy is right. You _are_ insufferable?"

Spock looked affronted, but made no comment.

Twenty minutes passed and during it they stood silently, watching the snow as it intensified. The streets below began to empty, the scattered reds and yellows of the cars' headlights growing less and less until they stopped almost entirely, and the world seemed to sink into a muffled hush, snowflakes drifting down by the billions, each one different and unique.

"It is quite lovely," Spock said.

"Yes." He could stand here and watch it all night. "It is."

The soft sounds of the door swinging open came from directly behind them and both men turned to see a young doctor enter the room. He held a medical chart in one hand and a scanner in the other. The man smiled, noting their attention on the weather outside.

"Looks like a good one," he said pleasantly, already possessing a doctor's easy bedside manner. "You're lucky you're both tucked inside for the night." He crossed to stand by the bed, laying the scanner and the chart on the small table beside it. "We get a lot of snow in this part of Jarsin, but still, the roads can be a mess for a few hours. You're better off out of it. My name is Doctor Stallings. Doctor Barstow asked me to check in on you tonight."

He extended his arm. Kirk shook his hand. Spock bowed his head, hands clasped behind his back.

Stallings evidently knew something about Vulcans for Spock's deferral didn't seem to surprise him. "Commander," he gestured toward the bed. "I have a few tests to run. If you would sit yourself down, I'll be done and out of your hair in five minutes."

Spock allowed the words to pass without comment. With Kirk at his side, he obligingly crossed the room and sat. Stallings stood over him, running a monitor along his body, peering intensively as it scanned the area of the abdominal injury. Pulling out another sensor from a breast pocket, he timed Spock's heartbeat, checked his blood pressure, performed various other body readings that went unexplained. Picking up the chart, he scribbled the results across the front in a universal doctor's scrawl.

"Everything all right?" Kirk asked, voice deceptively casual.

"Yes."

The man turned quickly away. Kirk was far too experienced a commander not to recognize an evasion when he saw it. Reaching out, he grasped his arm. "What?" The grip was tight and increased when the doctor made no comment.

Stallings cast Spock a sidelong glance. "I'm sorry. I know you're Doctor Barstow's patient and it's not my place to bring it up but I've only met one Vulcan before and you people..." He hesitated, blushed at the crude phrasing. Clearing his throat, the doctor continued, "...have always interested me. And you seem so healthy, so strong...I was concerned...."

The words trailed off. Kirk twisted the man's arm until Stallings was facing him directly. "What in the hell are you talking about?"

The doctor took one look at his face and decided he'd better answer the question. "I...I was wondering if you heard anything about the results of the biopsy."

Kirk felt his heart stop. "What biopsy?"

Stallings' face reflected his astonishment. "The...biopsy Doctor Barstow took during surgery. Surely he's mentioned something of it to you?"

That persistent red alarm was back, ringing with such intensity that it nearly deafened him. None of it, however, showed on his face. A prerequisite for a starship captain. The ability to think on one's feet coupled with the perfect poker face. Kirk had it. McCoy swore once that he'd been born with it.

 _Reassure him_. The words came into his head instantly, telling him what to do despite the fact that he had no idea what was going on. _The last thing you want is for him to go to Barstow asking a lot of questions._

He cast a self-conscious glance over one shoulder. "No, Doctor. You startled me for a moment, gave me a bit of a fright with this talk about biopsies." He lowered his voice. "But Doctor Barstow was doing something quite different, something that I requested. You see." Laying an hand gently across the other man's arm, he steered him across the room. "It's a rather...delicate matter, actually." He lowered his voice even farther. "It has to do with the Vulcan mating cycles. As you may know, they are rather, how should I say, unpredictable. And the only foolproof way of determining when they'll next occur is through a tissue sample taken from..." His mind began to race and he hoped that Stallings knew as little about Vulcan anatomy as he did. "...the spleen. Don't ask me why, but in Vulcans it apparently absorbs hormones and any imbalance can be detected."

He pressed his lips together, willing a faint blush to appear on his cheeks. "Spock's cycle is due in the next year or so and, well, he has to be back on Vulcan. I didn't really want to bring it up because I know it embarrasses him, but if he's caught a hundred million miles away when it hits he could be in serious trouble."

Kirk met the doctor's eyes and smiled sheepishly. "So when the attack occurred it seemed like the perfect opportunity." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "My friend is a very stubborn man. He's been refusing to have the exam and so I took it upon myself to take care of it for him. Because of its rather personal nature, I had asked Doctor Barstow to keep it confidential, not to draw undue attention to it."

Stallings' eyes widened. "I _was_ wondering why he seemed to take the sample so... surreptitiously. Almost as if he were trying to hide what he was doing. And not to mention it to anyone else. That too was most peculiar."

The man gave him a knowing look. "I understand though, Captain. I, too, will respect his privacy." He sighed in obvious relief. "Well." He directed his attention back to Spock. "I'm glad that it's nothing serious. Good evening, gentlemen. Doctor Barstow will be in to see you when he does his rounds in the morning."

Stallings turned to go. Kirk called him back. "One more thing. I thought I might drop in and see Doctor Barstow a little later. Do you happen to know how late he'll be staying at the hospital?"

"I'm not really sure, but as the director of the surgical department he puts in rather long hours, I'm afraid."

Kirk smiled in understanding. " _That_ I can believe."

Stallings laughed and left the room. After the door had safely closed, he turned back to his first officer. "Don't you think it's a bit odd that the director of the surgical department was pulling emergency room duty in the middle of the night?"

Spock's face was grim. "I do indeed, Jim."

Kirk stood for a moment in thought, although he already knew what he was going to do. This time the premonition would not go unheeded. Unlike the ghostly shadow of warning that he had felt before, the message echoing inside of his head right now was as clear as a bell. And so was the name it kept repeating over and over.

He looked up into those troubled eyes. "I'm getting you out of here. Now."

***

His sensitive ears heard the groan, a low straining groan as the Enterprise pulled the cumbersome Daphne in tow behind her. He mumbled something under his breath. "Mr. Kyle!" he barked. "Check those figures on the hull stress factors. Make sure she's not overreaching herself!"

Kyle, knowing how sensitive the dour Scotsman was to damage to his beloved Enterprise, was quick to recalibrate his sensors and take the reading. "She's at thirty-seven hundred psi, Mr. Scott. That's still within the tolerable limits..."

"I _know_ what her tolerable limits are, Mr. Kyle. Has there been any fluctuation in the degree of stress?"

"No, sir. The rate seems constant."

Scotty began to pace. Even if the pressure didn't get any worse thirty-seven hundred was too much. He should slow her speed down. And yet he had the strange feeling that he should hurry this rescue to its conclusion, get back to Jarsin II as quickly as possible.

Kyle turned back to him. Sulu's hand hovered over his panel, ready on a moments notice to lower their speed.

Scotty sat heavily in the command chair. The mighty ship groaned again. To his ears, it sounded like a scream, a plea for help. "Mr. Sulu," he said reluctantly, albeit hastily. "Bring her down to impulse three."

"Yes, sir."

The ship began to slow. The groaning stopped. Scotty sat back and resisted the urge to drum his fingers on the console. "Gettin' too damned paranoid in my old age," he muttered under his breath. "Never did believe that bunk about premonitions, anyway."

Everyone on the bridge heard him, but Scotty's mumbling were too familiar for anyone to pay it much attention and the words passed without comment.

***

Doctor Jonathan Barstow sat behind his desk. A dozen files spread out before him; surgical rotations, nurses' reports, those two doctors he needed to hire. So much work. Always so much work.

But he hadn't touched them, had just sat for nearly an hour now, unable to concentrate on such mundane matters. Not tonight.

Rising to his feet the doctor began to pace. He was uneasy. The operating room log had been changed, he'd seen to that. The evidence of the removed tissue registered there now: a tiny nick in the left kidney, an inadvertent slip of the hand. Not the best excuse, to be sure, but his options were somewhat limited. Some of the other doctors and nurses in that operating room had noticed his unorthodox procedure. Loose ends that had to be tied up.

So the lie had appeared on the report, although Barstow really had no idea why it was so important. He knew that the two aliens were in the military: some military, from somewhere. The uniform was unfamiliar to him and he didn't much care what the symbols on the sleeves, the chest, stood for. They were soldiers, Ocarias had told him that, had even given him a picture of his victims so he'd know who to look for. Captain and commander so-and-so from some offworld army somewhere, men trained in diplomacy and murder, garbed in one of a wide variety of costumes. He had seen the type before. Alien soldiers were not unfamiliar visitors to his world.

And the premier? His illustrious fool of a premier was involved in some nefarious scheme with them, or about them, something that involved taking a tissue sample from the Vulcan. Ocarias hadn't told him why and the doctor hadn't asked. The hint was well taken. Ignorance was the best course. It probably meant nothing in the long run anyway - some convoluted government plot. Perhaps it involved blackmail. Barstow didn't know and, frankly, didn't want to know. He simply did what he was asked to do and washed his hands of the entire affair.

 _Military savages_ , he thought morosely. _Let them slit each other's throat. What in the hell do I care?_ The words had little effect, however. He _did_ care. Not about them slitting one another's throat. That was a matter of total, complete indifference. What Barstow cared about, cared very passionately about was his own well-being, his own security. And, with the passing day, this entire scheme had begun to make him nervous. Perhaps it was the human. There was something very disturbing about him. He would make a formidable adversary. A most formidable adversary. The good doctor didn't know him at all, really, but of that he was certain and he shivered at the thought of his almost awesome presence, a force of will he swore he could actually reach out and touch with his hand.

But they would be gone before dawn, the both of them. Ocarias had assured him of that an hour before when he'd called him seeking reassurance. Dawn. The doctor glanced up at the clock. Eight hours away. Rising to his feet, he ran his fingers through his hair. Then, aware of the butterflies dancing in his stomach, he decided to assure himself that everything was going according to plan. He decided to pay one final visit to his unsuspecting patient.

***

Hospital hallways from one end of the galaxy to the other have a familiar, eerie hollowness in the middle of the night. Corridors that appeared small during the day become cavernous at night, echoing every footfall like a glass shattering on pavement. Nurses, orderlies, an occasional weary doctor walk through them, intent on their business, speaking very little as they pass one another. The hours go by and some of the patients die, bringing a flurry of activity into the routine, an excitement that lasts for a few short minutes and then is gone. Dawn finally arrives to bring the ghostly cycle to an end.

Darsin Hospital was no different. The hour was late and the corridors quiet. Therefore, when the door to Room 281 opened by a crack even the tiny squeak of worn hinges seemed loud. The door abruptly stilled, then widened when the hallway was revealed to be empty, the sound having gone unheard. A man stepped out, followed a few seconds later by another. Both were dressed in native clothes that didn't quite fit and one wore a hat, an addition that looked slightly strange and out of place but was better than what lay hidden underneath.

Slowly they began to walk up the corridor, the steps of the shorter man slowed by those of his taller and weaker companion. At one point they stopped and huddled together, speaking quietly to one another. A nurse rounded a corner and hesitated, giving them a puzzled look. She seemed about to say something when the stronger of the two turned and cut her off. He asked her a question, his voice harsh. The woman stammered out an answer and, turning on one heel, walked quickly away, her face flushed scarlet.

An arm slid around a thin waist. "Come on, Spock." The words were said softly, a muted whisper. The other man nodded silently in reply. At his side a door with a large red sign, 'Stairway. Floor Four,' affixed above it waited, its large upper window leering at them like a monstrous eye.

Kirk's grip tightened. "We could be trapped in the elevator," he said, voice filled with regret. "We don't dare take the chance. I'll help you. Come on."

Spock pushed the door open. Together, the two men helped one another through the doorway and down the darkened stairwell. The door closed.

Doctor Jonathan Barstow stood pressed against the corner of an adjacent hallway. He waited until the latch clicked home, scarcely daring to breathe. Then he ran for the phone at the nurses' station and put in an urgent call to Premier Ocarias.

***

The storm had stopped and the first thing he felt when he pushed the door open was the cold: a crystal clear, silent cold so reminiscent of an Iowa winter's night. Everything lay covered with a blanket of white but the sight brought no pleasant memories with it and the snow was not beautiful to him now. The only thing he saw when he looked at it was the trail it would lay down behind them as they walked.

The streets were deserted and he silently cursed that, too. More than anything right now he wanted a crowd, a mob of people to lose themselves in. Every few minutes a car would pass down the street, its tires crunching into the snow as it inched by. He thought about commandeering one but quickly dismissed the idea. Too much of risk it would attract attention, the unlucky owner screeching out his distress into the quiet of the night.

And besides, Jarsin was a rather violent place, the obvious logic of weapons control apparently lost on them. With his luck at the moment, the driver he assailed would have a shotgun propped in the passenger seat, ready and able to blast the both of them to smithereens.

So they would walk.

At his side he felt Spock shiver although the Vulcan, of course, said nothing. His breath condensed in the air before him, forming a white fog around his nose and mouth, his skin already tingling, and he knew that his friend could not survive in this cold for very long, not in his weakened condition. His grip tightened as he pulled Spock closer, trying ineffectually to transmit some of his own body heat.

They began to move, slowly, trudging through snow that went halfway to their knees, Kirk constantly peering over his shoulder, searching for a sign of movement, of pursuit. Spock suddenly slipped on a hidden patch of ice. Kirk caught him, accidentally digging his fingers into the day-old wound as he clutched at the Vulcan's shirt. Both men flinched. "Sorry," Kirk mumbled.

The cold seemed to grow worse, stabbing at his lungs like slivers of glass as he desperately scanned the shuttered buildings, the dark windows, the empty street. "Spock? We've got to find some shelter. Any suggestions?"

The Vulcan was five seconds late in answering, a mute indication of his distress. "There is, I believe, an underground system in the city." Again, hesitation. "If we can find an entrance, we can get below ground."

_Great. Below ground, out of the cold and also out of sight. But where in the hell is it?_

He looked around, bitterly regretting that he hadn't paid more attention in their mad dash to the hospital the night before. But the streets looked so different then, dry and uncovered. And the hour was earlier. There were people walking the sidewalks, cars jamming the road, lights everywhere.

He abruptly zeroed in on one fragment of a memory, something that stood out in the blur. A crowd gathered on a corner. A sign affixed to an archway. He recalled seeing those people, wondering how they could stand there with such unconcern while Spock lay bleeding to death in the ambulance that was racing past them. A foolish thought, brought on by that peculiar adrenaline high he was on. Ambulances were common sights in the streets surrounding the hospital. One got used to those things.

He pushed the crowd from his mind, concentrating instead on the sign. Bright red, it was, with yellow letters. More fragments came back to him: stairs disappearing into the concrete, a metal handrail embedded into the side of each wall, a pile of trash propped against one wall. It had to be.

"Come on." He eased Spock in another direction, hoping against hope that he wasn't heading them down the wrong street. "I think I remember seeing a subway entrance this way. It's not very far."

Spock turned without question. His head was low, his eyes partially opened. Even under the best of conditions, the Vulcan found snow a difficult surface to traverse and right now it was rapidly becoming impossible. Kirk could feel him steadily weaken with every slip, every misstep. Their clothes provided them with little protection and he found himself wishing that they had chanced lingering at the hospital to try and abscond with a coat or two. The sense of impending danger warned him not to delay, but now, feeling the cold cut through his shirt as if he were wearing nothing at all he began to wonder if he'd made a very bad mistake

They rounded a bend in the road and there, like a gift from heaven, stood the entrance to the underground, its yellow letters glowing vibrantly in the frigid air. Kirk's grip tightened. "Come on, old friend. We're almost there."

Spock raised his head. "Fortunate."

Under other circumstances, he might have found the Vulcan's laconic response amusing. But right now laughter was about the farthest thing from his mind.

They reached the stairs and he could see the ice covered steps reflect the light as they disappeared into the ground. _Shit._

Spock heard him. "I can make it, Jim. I just require some...assistance."

Kirk gave him a look that clearly bespoke his inner doubts. Moving to stand before him, he grasped the Vulcan by the forearms. "I'll go first, take a step down and you follow. That way if you fall as least you'll land on me and not the concrete."

Spock stiffened and seemed on the verge of saying something. But, seeing his own intransigence reflect back at him he apparently changed his mind and, grabbing hold of the captain's arms, allowed himself to be led down the stairs.

Fortunately, neither man fell.

***

The station below was long and narrow. A bored transit authority worker sat behind a row of iron bars and took Kirk's money with a surly "train 14 is due in six minutes."

The captain turned away, pocketing the tokens, and studied their surroundings. The subway was traditional, a long, narrow tunnel bisected by two sets of tracks that disappeared into the darkness at either end. Rows of bright lights shone from overhead, casting harsh shadows on everything below. Vending machines, many showing signs of vandalism, stood scattered against support beams. Graffiti covered the walls, pronouncing momentary love interests or comments on the state of the world. Approximately two dozen people were inside, some sitting on the benches that lined the outer wall, some standing, peering down the tracks as if their intense scrutiny would speed the arrival of the subway cars.

Kirk helped Spock down to one of the wooden benches farthest from the entrance. Crouching before him, he began to rub the Vulcan's hands within his own. The skin was cold to the touch. Too cold. "How are you holding out?"

Spock rested his head against the wall behind him. Even for a Vulcan it was clear to Kirk that he was in pain. And the captain knew that, unlike earlier in the day, he didn't dare impair his own alertness by helping him deal with it now.

The persistent massage slowed, then stopped. Kirk tilted his head to one side until Spock opened his eyes and looked down at him. He repeated his question. "Are you all right?"

Spock replied slowly, his jaw tight. "I am somewhat weak. I am not in serious distress."

Kirk began to gently rub the skin once again. Spock, aware that the captain's back was toward the entrance, focused his gaze on the stairway. "I think," Kirk glanced up a moment later, "that our first order of business would be to try and get a handle on just what's going on here."

"Agreed."

"It would appear that someone," the captain speculated, his voice low, "for reasons unknown, wanted a tissue sample from you, one of such size that it could only be obtained during surgery. In order to pull that off with the least amount of suspicion they needed a skilled surgeon, one who could perform the procedure with a minimum of time and a maximum of efficiency - hence the unexpected presence of Doctor Barstow in the emergency room."

Unfastening the sleeves, he began to massage Spock's arms. "If the natives wouldn't think it strange, I'd wrap you in a bear hug and cradle you like a baby. You're nearly frozen." He smiled sadly. "But I suppose attracting attention is the last thing we should be doing right about now." Without missing a beat, he slipped back into their previous conversation. "That being the case, I would think it fair to assume that your injury was also planned, and the 'drunk' who attacked you a very skilled actor and probably an assassin as well." The hands abruptly stilled. "Which brings us to a very important question."

Spock nodded. "I know. Why?"

"Why indeed? I can't for the life of me understand why Ocarias would set you up like this on his own. What possible reason could he have to arrange all of this just to get you on an operating table and take...."

Hazel eyes widened as another possibility crept into his conscious mind. "You don't think they put anything _in_ , do you? Some kind of a transponder or slow-releasing drug?"

Spock considered that for a moment, then shook his head. "No, Jim. If any foreign objects had been introduced into my body, I would feel it."

"Yes...yes, I suppose you're right about that. Which brings us back to the fact that Ocarias, or someone pulling his strings, went to a lot of trouble to take something out. It doesn't seem like they were trying to kill you. In fact, Barstow went out of his way to safeguard procedure, to make sure you were responding as expected." He shook his head. "It doesn't make any...."

Suddenly a chill went through his body, an internal tremor that traced an icy path up the center of his spine. He resisted the urge to turn around. "Did anyone just come down the stairs?" he whispered.

Spock's attention had not wavered from the stairway and Kirk detected a trace of surprise in his eyes. "No."

Kirk felt the hair rising on the back of his neck. He stood up. At the far end of the station, over fifty yards away, he could see another stairway, connecting this station with one of the other lines that crossed through the city. "Come on. Something's wrong. We're getting out of here."

Spock stood without a word. Kirk slipped a hand around his waist and, slowly, almost casually, the two men began to make their way toward the far exit.

They had gone about ten feet when a man appeared from out of an adjacent corridor that fed into the station. He was tall and strongly built, wearing a heavy black greatcoat and a hat pulled down low over his face. He swiveled his head back and forth as if searching for something. His gaze flashed above and beyond the two Starfleet officers but he did not look at them. Slipping his hands into his pockets, he started to walk in their direction.

Kirk could read the menace in those eyes as if it were written across the man's forehead. He pulled Spock to a halt and glanced over one shoulder although he already knew what he would see. The only thing he didn't know was how many there would be.

There were three, walking quickly down the stairs to stop on the platform. Three men, all of whom were larger than either he or Spock, dressed in a costume similar to that worn by their fourth companion. Unlike the other man, however, they did not feign disinterest. They stood, their arms resting easily against their legs, their eyes locked squarely on Spock's face.

He could feel the Vulcan stiffen. "Jim." Spock reached up to grasp his arm. "Leave me."

Kirk resisted the urge to give him an incredulous look although he knew that, in a similar situation, he would have said exactly the same thing. And gotten exactly the same response.

He ignored the words completely, felt a flash of dismay through the link but no surprise. He ignored that too. "Do you hear the train coming?"

The station was quiet. Spock shook his head. "Negative."

The men before him abruptly began to walk forward again. One of them looked away from Spock to meet his gaze and he could see the challenge in the stranger's eyes, a predatory gleam that almost dared him to try anything. Thick lips parted into a mirthless smile. Kirk felt his heart still in his chest.

He backed up, his mind racing. Despite their appearance he sensed they weren't native to Jarsin although they were clearly trying to appear so. There was an aura to them, a malevolence that was unknown here. And if they were outworlders, they undoubtedly had a ship in orbit somewhere. Were armed with sophisticated weapons, not that it would have made much difference in any event. He and Spock were unarmed and outnumbered. And the Vulcan, in his present condition, would be more of a hindrance than a help.

 _The Daphne was probably a set up - to lure the Enterprise away_. The thought had occurred to him seconds after Stallings' blunder. One look into those alien eyes that met his own was enough to convince him that he had been right. Unfortunately. In all probability, fatally.

The men moved closer. One reached into his coat. "Where in the hell is that train," Kirk whispered urgently, sensing the fourth man at his back, knowing that it was their only possible avenue of escape.

As if in answer to his plea a distant rumble began to fill the station, a low roar that echoed off the walls, growing in intensity until it threatened to deafen everyone inside. Kirk saw the strangers exchange glances. A light pierced the darkness at the end of one tunnel. "Train 14 for Sterling Cross and points north arriving on track number one," a voice over a loudspeaker intoned.

It was as good a place as any. "Come on, Spock. I think it's time we paid a visit to Sterling Cross." _Or at least, **you** paid a visit to Sterling Cross. _

Spock swiveled his head sharply to look down at him, clearly reading the thoughts, but Kirk kept his eyes focused straight ahead. _Don't argue with me, goddammit!_ He put every ounce of Starfleet authority in the command, hoping that Spock wouldn't fight him on this, knowing that neither of them had the time. _You're getting out of here and that's final._

The train rolled into view, its locomotive appearing faintly menacing as it moved out from the gloom. The occupants of the station rose and started moving toward the track. Kirk moved with them, pushing Spock to one side, trying to shield him should the strangers decide that murder was preferable to escape and open fire.

The doors opened. People began to press inside. Kirk shoved Spock ahead of him, aware of the men closing in at his back. Something hard pressed into his spine. "Step out." The voice was low, harsh. He saw Spock, forced into the car by the mass of people, turn back, a look of horror on his face, as a hand grabbed his collar and jerked him out onto the platform. _Stay inside, Spock. In the name of god, stay inside._

With a fierce swing of his arm, he embedded his elbow into the chest of the man directly behind him. The hand came away from his collar and, for an instant the weapon was no longer digging into his back. Then another pressed against his ribcage and he heard the distinctive sound of a power cell beginning to release its charge.

And, like the scene in the dining hall the day before, time, once again, seemed to stand still. He knew, suddenly, who the strangers were, could see their simian faces leering down at him from all sides. The weapon jabbing into his ribs fired, sending a raging pain shooting through his body like a massive burst of electricity. The subway doors began to close and, through the mist of pain that was dragging his mind into blackness, he could see Spock's face, white, distraught, looking out at him through the glass. He knew he was falling, hands, coarse alien hands, grabbing him around the waist, pulling his arms behind his back. _Spock!_ he cried out as the disrupter tore into him once again. _Stay where you are. Please, god, stay where you are. Let it be me this time. Please..._

The plea was useless. He knew it even as it played itself out in his head. Spock could no more stay inside and do nothing than he could exist without breathing. The doors opened yet again and the last thing he remembered seeing was Spock, face contorted with fury, arms raised above his head, coming at them like some kind of avenging demon.

Then everything exploded in a wall of white and he saw nothing at all.

***

A Klingon disrupter stun was a far cry from that of a Starfleet phaser. The effects were painful and debilitating, lingering for hours in the joints and muscles, rendering its unlucky victim as weak as an infant long after a Starfleet stun was nothing but an unpleasant memory.

The effect on the mind was also disorienting and, for several minutes the captain lay still, trying to assess his condition, clear his thoughts.

He was sitting on a hard floor, his knees bent beneath him, his hands tied behind his back. The surroundings were silent and he could tell through closed lids that they were also dark. Slowly, he cracked an eyelid.

And saw nothing. The room was not only dark, it was black, seamlessly, totally black. He scanned a full 360 degree circle, but there was no break, no cracks of a door, no outlines of a window.

Slowly he rose to his feet, spreading his legs as his knees buckled. For a second, the room began to swim madly and he lowered his head until the spinning stopped. Then, carefully, he took a step forward.

And nearly fell back when he hit the wall only inches in front of him. Turning in another direction, he found a second surface, following it with his body as it outlined his tiny prison. Six feet on a side and he took a deep breath, fighting off the surge of claustrophobia. It was illogical for someone to go to the trouble of bringing him here alive only to lock him in a crypt and leave him to die.

He had sensed immediately that Spock wasn't sharing the cell with him. The thought brought a taste of fear to his mouth, although he knew better than to expect such good fortune. His first officer was the target in all of this, although he still had no idea why. It made no sense that the Vulcan would be kidnapped and then dumped in here with him and left alone.

But if he wasn't here, then where was he? The possibilities were not pleasant and, the more he thought about them, the worse they became.

 _No._ He pushed the fear to the back of his mind. Speculation was profitless. There was another way, a better way to learn what was going on. Closing his eyes, he concentrated, sending his thoughts into the darkness, seeking out the mind that he knew better than he knew his own.

And found nothing. Nothing but the vague, underlying sense of Spock's consciousness, drifting, confused, unfocused, and his heart begin to beat faster, the adrenaline tracing an icy path through his veins. The lack of a coherent response was sobering. And frightening. Either Spock was unconscious or deliberately shielding him from what was going on. Right at the moment he wasn't sure which was the worse scenario.

 _At least he's still alive. I'd **know** if he were dead. And he's not. I can feel it_. The words brought him little comfort. Instinctively, he probed once again. Not shielding. The presence was too scattered for that.

 _All right, all right_ , Kirk's mind began to race. _So he's unconscious. Probably sedated. And heavily guarded too, no doubt. That means he won't be able to do a damned thing to help himself. And **that** means that I'd better find a way out of this room. And fast. _

Pressing his back against the wall, he began to run his hands along the smooth surfaces. Logically, there had to be a door, even if he couldn't see it. His sensitive fingertips traced the walls and corners, finally locating a tiny crack that ran in a straight vertical line up the far wall. Dropping to his knees, he searched for a hinge. The abrupt movement sent a wave of dizziness washing over him, a mute warning that his air was becoming thin. Slowing his breathing, he waited for the disorientation to pass, wondering if the reassurances he had given himself a moment before had any validity at all, or whether this place was, in fact, to be the site of his execution.

Suddenly, without warning, the door was pushed open, flooding the room with brilliant light and knocking him back against the floor. He gasped and turned his face away, momentarily blinded by the glare.

"Well, so we _are_ awake, after all." A voice broke the silence. "The sensors showed movement, but I had expected you to call out. That is invariably the first reaction - when a prisoner finds himself locked in a dark room - to call out, to react with fright. But you didn't do this. Interesting."

Kirk raised his head, realizing that his shadowy adversary was already sizing him up. He took a deep breath as the fresh air from the outer hallway flooded into his cramped prison.

"Get up, Captain. Your friend is waiting to see you."

Kirk fought to keep any reaction from registering on his face. He struggled to his feet and calmly met the other man's gaze. "Who are you?"

The stranger smiled. "My name, for lack of anything better, is Goras Turan. I am, how shall I say, on sabbatical here, conducting, or about to conduct, a most fascinating experiment."

Experiment. The word had an ominous ring, although, in view of recent events, it didn't really surprise him.

Turan paused, cocking his head to one side. "You've caused us considerable trouble, friend, what with your relationship with your first officer and your persistence in trying to whisk him away from us. And you nearly succeeded. Very nearly succeeded. If you'd made it onto that train and lost yourselves in the subway system our scanners would never have been able to find you underground. It would have been a simple matter for you to lay low until tomorrow when the Enterprise returns."

Kirk studied the swarthy face; saw the same predatory gleam he'd seen in the eyes of their attackers in the underground. It was a look he had seen before. "You're a Klingon." There was no inflection in his voice. It was not a question.

Turan raised an eyebrow. "I am a scientist, just as your friend Spock is a scientist. Perhaps that thought will give him comfort in the next few hours, the knowledge that he is giving up his life, his mind, for science."

Kirk took a step forward, seeing for the first time the two burly guards in the corridor. "What have you done with him? Where is he?"

Turan met his gaze levelly, black eyes glinting with malice. "This was to have been all so simple, Kirk. I should have known that it was just too easy. But, still, it would have worked were it not for you and your precious little affair. Who would have thought it? A Vulcan and a human, and Starfleet officers serving on the same ship no less. If such a thing had happened in my fleet, the men involved would have been executed. Such division of loyalties among the fighting forces." Turan clucked his tongue. "Very dangerous."

He backed out into the corridor, his pose calm and relaxed. "But, to answer your question, I'm afraid that your friend is in somewhat of an unenviable position, one that will soon become worse. And you, you too have a very bleak future. It's all too bad, really. If you'd simply kept up the womanizing that we'd thought was one of your favorite pastimes, you could have left this planet without anyone harming a hair on your head."

The Klingon ran an open hand against his thigh. "That Vulcan of yours obviously possesses talents that we hadn't realized. Perhaps I'll partake of those gifts myself before I'm done with him." He smiled, easily reading the fury in the captain's eyes.

Clenching his fists, Kirk tested the strength of the restraints. _Filthy Klingon bastard_ , he thought savagely. _If I could break out of these things, I'd take that smile of yours and wipe the walls with it._ The thick, synthetic bands cut into his bared wrists. He pulled again, but they held him easily.

Turan watched his efforts with amusement, saw the biceps flex in useless effort. "You cannot break them, captain. It would be unworthy of your reputation for you to continue trying when you clearly cannot succeed."

He began to walk down the corridor, glanced back to see Kirk studying the guards on either side. "Come, come, now," he admonished. "You can't be seriously thinking of taking on two of my best men with your hands tied behind your back. Even for _you_ that seems somewhat of an impossible task." He extended one arm. "Your friend is just down the hall. Let's not keep him waiting any longer, shall we?"

***

The passageway was long, flanked by a row of doorways similar to the one he'd just passed through. Confinement rooms of some kind, he surmised, noting that they bore identical name plates and were all as tightly sealed as his own had been. Clearly, whatever was kept in them was either sensitive to light or more probably, after his own unpleasant experience, being held against its will.

They came to a security gate. Various sensors and monitors lined the wall, sending waves of infrared radiation across the entrance, searching continually for anyone or anything attempting to break through. Turan halted and, reaching into his pocket, pulled out a magnetized card. Slipping it against a flat metal plate, he waited a moment, then punched a long series of numbers into a keyboard recessed into one wall.

Overhead, a red light began to flash and the door opened. The four men crossed through the checkpoint only to encounter another one a dozen feet beyond. The Klingon repeated the same procedure, this time using a different card. With a nearly inaudible sound, the first door shut behind them. Kirk could hear the dull thud as the metal bolt slid home.

Turan punched another twenty-digit code into the computer, then glanced back at him. "Top security, captain. Only three people on this entire planet, other than myself and my men, of course, have ever been beyond this point. Except for your Vulcan friend. He is already inside. But he doesn't really count. When I say three, I mean those people who go in and come out again." He laughed.

Kirk resisted the urge to embed one knee in the center of the man's groin. "There could be interstellar war over what you're doing." _Whatever the hell you **are** doing_. "You know that, don't you?"

Turan gave him an amused look. "You disappoint me, Kirk," he said softly. "You're not listening."

The second door opened before the captain could reply. He turned to face it, feeling his stomach lurch as the sensation of Spock's presence flooded into his mind. The Vulcan was in that room, a scant few feet away in fact. He took a step inside, his heart thumping loudly in his ears.

Abruptly Turan stopped him, grasping him by the arm and pulling him back out into the anteroom. Kirk turned back, his eyes flashing. He'd had enough of the Klingon's games. "Don't fence with me, Turan," he warned. "Let me go in."

The Klingon's expression was one of mockery, but Kirk noted that the hand came away from his arm. They stared at one another for nearly thirty seconds. Turan was the first to break eye contact. He inclined his head by a fraction. "By all means, Kirk. Go to him."

The captain stepped inside, the guards at his back. He slowed his pace, knew from the direction of the link where Spock was, but the Vulcan was hidden from view, another one of Turan's sadistic little games, no doubt, and he used the opportunity to search his surroundings.

The room was large, its walls painted a dull gray, its ceiling covered with incandescent lights. Sophisticated medical and technological equipment seemed to be everywhere, humming and buzzing with constant activity. Two men, natives from the looks of them, stood nervously before him, shifting their weight back and forth on their feet. One looked away the instant he made eye contact and focused on something just out of his range of vision. He followed the man's gaze, although the link had already told him what he would see.

Spock lay barely ten feet away, partially hidden by a partition, tied down to what looked disconcertingly like a dissection table. Heavy synthetic straps laced across his wrists and ankles, tight enough to depress the skin. His head was thrown back, his breathing regular and even. A thick, adhesive bandage covered his eyes.

Quickly, feeling the rage grow within him, the captain moved to his side. Turan pushed up behind, running a blunt finger along the center of his back. "There he is, Kirk," he whispered. "Your beloved friend - sleeping the peaceful sleep of a child, soon, oh so soon, to wake up to a most unpleasant reality."

Perhaps it was the leering tone of voice, perhaps the sight of Spock strapped down to the table like a laboratory animal, but something inside his head snapped. Uttering a roar, he threw himself backward, slamming one shoulder into the Klingon's chest and sending him sprawling to the floor. The doctor nearest to them let out a yelp and scurried away, nearly thrown aside by the Klingon guards who raced forward, driving Kirk back against the table. Instinctively, he pivoted away from it but, catching his foot around one of the many wires that lay across the floor, he lost his balance and fell heavily to the floor.

The men were on him in a second, nearly crushing him by their combined weight. Their hands seemed to be everywhere, holding him down, pressing his shoulders, his legs against the cold, metallic floor.

One of the men struck him across the mouth, knocking his head back. He gasped and looked up.

And froze.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw an arm go up, a thick, muscled Klingon arm, aiming a square fist directly in the center of his face. But for one of the few times in his adult life he found himself totally incapable of reacting. He didn't even look at it. His gaze remained riveted on the creature standing on the platform behind him.

Turan rose to his feet and came to stand over him, his feet spread widely apart, one hand rubbing his chest. "Well, Kirk," he said, his breath short, his tone one of victory. "You see now what this is all about, the purpose behind everything. What do you think? The image of perfection, wouldn't you say?"

It was indeed the image of perfection, so much so that it quite literally stilled his heart. For, when he looked up at that stand, what he saw, quite simply, was Spock, the face a mirror image so exact that he was unable to see any difference at all. His gaze moved down to study the strong, lean torso and long, powerful legs, covered illogically with a thin outfit of white material. Still unfinished, lacking, among other things, the external genitalia, the final texturing of the calves and feet, the figure was nevertheless so exact that it stunned him to the core of his being.

He tore his eyes from the ungodly creation and looked over at his helpless friend. "What are you doing, Turan?" he whispered, a very real trace of fear in his voice.

The Klingon smiled. "Let him up, Kras."

The hands came away. Kirk pulled himself upright and stood uncertainly for a moment as the men backed off. Then he moved to stand before the table, fingers brushing against Spock's arm, wondering what he could realistically do to protect him with his hands tied behind his back, but making the gesture nevertheless.

Turan searched his face, detected the hint of desperation in his eyes. "It must be very difficult for a man like yourself to admit to such total helplessness, is it not?"

Kirk stiffened but made no response.

Turan didn't seem surprised. He sauntered over to the far side of the table and began running his fingers lightly along the side of Spock's face, then glanced up into Kirk's furious eyes. "We've created a duplicate," he said, answering the captain's question of a moment before, "to take Commander Spock's place. I don't think it's necessary to tell you why - a man of your intelligence should be able to figure that out with no trouble."

Klingon fingers traced a pattern against one cheek, following the curve of the lips in a deliberately provocative action. Kirk made no move to stop him, but Turan could almost hear the captain's teeth grinding against one another through the tightly clenched jaws. "We've been planning this for months, years even, awaiting the ideal opportunity to strike. And three weeks ago we found it - here on the frozen wastes of Jarsin II. We learned too late of your peculiar relationship with your first officer, far to late to change everything. So, much as we wanted to attract no attention to the duplication, it quickly became obvious to us that, in order to salvage the plan, you would have to be eliminated. An accident was planned at the hospital, but you slipped out before we could put it into operation. And then, after the disturbance at the subway station, you forced us to turn it into a police matter and bring in more participants than we had wished."

Turan shrugged. "No matter. We'll simply fly Ocarias and his immediate staff to Dismar. It is, after all, his summer residence. Starfleet will find nothing unusual in the fact that he suddenly decided on a change of plans, especially after the storm we experienced tonight. You're here for a few extra days, so he thinks he'll take you to his summer palace, show you the flowering larmoras, the world-renounced crystal grotto." The Klingon's voice took on a mocking tone as he related the scenario. "It's a good idea, to take you away like that, something perfectly in character for him. And, ever the Starfleet diplomat, off you two will go, you to an early and most tragic death, your grieving second-in-command," Turan inclined his head toward the platform, "back to the Enterprise, to withdraw in sorrow and, also, undermine your precious Federation at the same time. It's perfect in retrospect, even better than our original idea. And, if Starfleet investigates your death, they'll be doing their investigations in Dismar, eight thousand miles from here. What little evidence remains will be far, far away."

Turan glanced down at the silent Vulcan. "And as for your friend here," he said, a strange and very disturbing tone to his voice. "He'll go back with me." His hand moved down Spock's neck and unfastened the top button of his shirt. "He is an interesting man...a very interesting man. The fact that he's managed to satisfy the likes of you only adds to my, how shall I say, 'curiosity.'" He gave the captain a vicious smile. "Tell me, Kirk, what is he like? Is he hard or soft? Vulcans have always struck me as being hard creatures, but," he turned back to Spock once again. "there is a softness to him that is quite undeniable."

Kirk forced the rage back down into his chest. Turan was only trying to provoke him, to goad him into another helpless outburst. The pain from his last irrational explosion still stung and he knew deep within himself that it had also affected Spock, would continue to affect him even in his unconscious state, inhibit his ability to concentrate when he was finally aware of his surroundings.

Turan watched him struggle for control, repress his anger. "You are a remarkable man, Kirk," he said, a hint of admiration in his tone. "We are much alike, you and I. Under different circumstances we might even have been friends."

Kirk glared at him in open disgust, but, refusing to allow himself to be baited, did not reply to the statement.

Turan held his gaze for a moment before turning to the elder of the two doctors in the room. "Marcian, are you ready to proceed?"

The man nodded, his face ashen. "We are."

Kirk instantly noted the slight wavering in his voice, the hidden tension and dread that lay just beneath the surface. There was something familiar about it and, after a moment, he realized what it was. The sound reminded him of McCoy. He had heard his Chief Medical Officer speak with the same tightness, the same faint quaver when forced to perform a duty that he didn't relish, something that he would have given a great deal to avoid.

The fiery anger faded away, replaced by the cool workings of a captain's mind. There was at least one person in this room who was disturbed by what they were doing, profoundly disturbed if his own instincts were right. He cast the man a quick look. Middle-aged, like Barstow, but smaller somehow, thinner, cringing, his clothes hanging off his frame as if he had lost ten pounds in the past two days. The face was puffy, the eyes red from anxiety and lack of sleep. The native's eyes shifted over to meet his own, then darted away, visibly uneasy under his intense stare.

 _An ally_ , Kirk thought, hope igniting in his chest. He felt his heart begin to race. Perhaps all was not lost after all.

He glanced back at Turan, careful to keep his expression neutral. The Klingon's eyes narrowed suspiciously, but his position was so clearly hopeless that Turan quickly dismissed it. He turned his attention to Marcian. "Then, Doctor, let us begin. Revive him."

The native reached out to his machine and Kirk could clearly see his hand shake, the sight sending a surge of adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream. _All right, you Klingon bastard. We're not finished yet. Not by a long shot, you lousy son-of-a-bitch._

***

The first thing he could hear were voices; distant, buzzing in his ears like mosquitoes. There were several, speaking to one another, but the sounds mingled and blurred together and he could derive no sense from them. He tried to open his eyes, but something was holding the lids down. He focused on the sensation, trying to clear his thoughts, to understand what was happening, but the ice water that seemed to run through his veins defeated him.

The attempt, however, was not without result and he became aware of something else. A peculiar pressure against his face, one that he could not at first identify. Concentrating, he attempted to localize on it. The pressure solidified and took form. He felt a surge of fear when he realized what it was.

Cold metal fingers pressed into his temples, arching his neck back, holding his head in a firm grip. Another shape, a band or a chain, stretched across his forehead. overlaying the softer cloth that covered his eyes. He pushed against it, testing the strength. Almost immediately a shrill beep came from directly below one ear and the pressure suddenly increased, sending the fingers digging into his skin.

Someone standing directly above him spoke and Spock realized that the other voices had stopped, that the room was now very quiet. He concentrated on that. Abruptly, something began to funnel into his consciousness, a warmth and a familiarity that he recognized without knowing what it was. Instinctively, he turned his mind toward it.

_Spock? Can you hear me?_

The words were indistinct, but he found that, paradoxically, he understood what they said. _Jim?_

 _Yes._ The voice was clearer now, cutting through the clouds in his mind like a beacon leading him home. He felt himself begin to relax.

 _Lie still._ The tone was gentle, calm. _Focus on my words. They've drugged you to try and weaken your shields. Use my strength to compensate for your own._

He felt the air move beside his face as someone walked behind him. A man spoke, a gruff comment that received no reply. And, even though he understood Kirk's words perfectly, those spoken by the man above him made no sense at all.

The voice distracted him, pulled his consciousness away and he felt, incongruously, a flash of anger, but quickly repressed it. A useless reaction, siphoning off strength that he sensed he would dearly need very shortly. _Jim?_ He floated back into the familiar privacy of the captain's thoughts, deriving what comfort he could in the beloved presence. He was afraid, but realized that the fear was more over Kirk's safety than his own. _Jim_ , he called out once again. _What is happening?_

Sounds came from directly to his left. "...for force five. That should be sufficient." The words were chilling, the voice unfamiliar.

 _It's a mind probe, Spock_ , the captain whispered, his tone more urgent. _There's no time to explain. Protect yourself. Use my strength. Now!_

He heard a distinct click of a switch, followed by the low, humming sounds of a computer. The metal against his face started to vibrate, sending tiny bursts of electrical current into his brain. It was a sensation he had not felt in nearly ten years, but one that he recognized immediately.

It was a mind scanner. A Klingon mind scanner. Similar to the one he had endured on Organia and yet different. Stronger, less selective. Unlike the previous device that went after individual memories, this one was like a blanket, covering him totally, seeking to absorb everything in his mind.

Quickly, gathering up as much strength as he could muster, he began slamming barriers around his mind but the shields were weak and insubstantial. He felt Kirk's thoughts within his own, holding him up, supporting him, trying to stand between him and his relentless pursuer. The captain's strength mingled with his own weakness, flowing into him like a great wave. And, for a single instant, he tasted Kirk's fear.

"It's not enough. Turn it to force eight."

The same, malevolent voice spoke again and he could actually feel the surge of adrenaline course through the captain's veins at the sound. _Hold on. Lean on me. Hold on._

Spock dared not break his concentration to reply. Another barrier formed as the pressure within his skull increased. He could hear the probe now, pummeling itself against the wall of his resistance, pounding through his head like a metal drill. Then it seemed to hesitate, searching for weakness, gathering its strength. He braced himself, knowing that the next assault would be very bad.

It was devastating, a searing, blinding pain shooting through the center of his head as the machine lunged forward once again, tearing huge gaps in his mental barriers. The force of the attack jolted him and, without being aware of it, he arched off the table. In the distance, he could sense the captain's presence, reaching out to him, trying frantically to give him the strength the drugs had taken away but the pain obscured every conscious thought. He could feel it boring into his mind like a ruthless, savage beast, tunneling through the walls around his consciousness as if they were made of soft clay. He had never experienced anything like it, never anything even close to it. The Klingon mind scanner that he remembered was a mild irritant in comparison.

The power increased again and he watched in helpless terror as the force coalesced, took form. The vague contours solidified, turned into a hideous monster; savage, murderous, roaring in blind rage as it tore into him, sinking its teeth into his raw memories, shredding him like a cabbage. He tried desperately to hold it back, throwing up wall after wall, but the demon passed through them as if they weren't even there.

Soon, there was nothing left, nowhere to run. The beast filled him completely now, looming before him, over him, within him like a bellowing, primeval nightmare. Even the captain had vanished. There was nothing but the terrifying, all-consuming demon. And Spock knew, as surely as he had ever known anything in his life, that in an instant the beast would ravage his every thought, tear his mind inside out and rip it away. Then, after it had satiated its hunger that which it had stolen would be used to destroy everything that had ever held any meaning in his life.

The thought was unbearable but he hadn't the strength to fight any longer. His mind was caught within the jaws of the thing, trapped by the drugs, the injury, in a very real way the horror of the mental violation. He couldn't hold out against it and lay helplessly as it split him apart like a ripe fruit and fed on him for what seemed like hours. He had always thought of himself as being strong - mentally, intellectually strong. He wouldn't have believed that his defeat could have happened so swiftly.

And then, through the pain, the debilitating weakness, he could see the captain, reaching out to him, calling him forward. He watched as Kirk seemed to materialize out of the fog, watched as his lips moved, heard as he spoke his name. And knew that the beast heard it too. He felt as it straightened up and turned back to face its real enemy.

 _Spock._ Kirk's voice was soft, unconcerned. Gentle. _Come on, Spock. We're stronger than that thing - the two of us. Come, stand with me. We'll protect each other._

The human's hand stretched out. He tried to lift his arm to reach out and meet it but the demon knocked him away, snarling in bestial, helpless rage. The force of the blow stunned him, but Kirk seemed not to notice it at all. His hand passed right through the hideous form, his fingers touching, then grasping Spock's own helpless ones, sending a surge of strength and courage into him.

_I'll stay with you, my friend. You're not alone. Not alone. You'll never be alone. Never._

The words drove the fear away before them and the walls began to reform, rebuild. He knew now that he had the strength he needed, that he, that they would not let the violator defeat them. The cost, if the attack was not called off, would be his sanity, but it could not be helped. The Klingons wouldn't get what they wanted. He would bury the memories so far down that they'd never find them. He would be quite mad long before they reached that level in his mind and anything they dredged up would be totally useless to them. It was an unpleasant, but acceptable solution.

He brought the captain's hand to his lips, kissing the illusory fingers one by one. _Thank you, beloved friend_ , he said, his voice tinged with a combination of love and a deep, aching sorrow.

Kirk smiled at him, his eyes bright with tears. _There will still be pain for both of us_ , he said, his tone anguished. _And for that, I am most truly sorry._

Spock felt the demon batter against him, bending the shields he had just constructed. In the end, the probe would crush them, demolish them before its unthinking, untiring onslaught, driving him into the final escape of total madness. And he, too was sorry. But not for himself. His sorrow was for his friend who would be forced to watch this until the last agonizing moment and then face a brutal and lonely death of his own. And that thought, Spock realized without any surprise, was the most bitter one of all.

***

Marcian's hands were shaking, his voice trembling so violently that he was difficult to understand. "I don't _know!_ " he wailed. Thin fingers fumbled with the controls. "He's fighting it! I can't make contact! I seemed to break through for a moment and then he started blocking it somehow!"

Turan pushed him out of the way. "Turn up the power! He's weakening! He's got to be weakening! The machine has been perfected. I was told that it had been perfected, that _no one_ could hold out against it now! _No one!_ "

Kirk stood, backed against a far wall, held on either side by a Klingon guard. "Marcian," he said, keeping his voice as level as possible, knowing that shouting would only drive the native deeper into his internal paralysis. "Listen to me. You can't... ." Within his mind, he felt Spock slip, begin to lose ground. He hesitated, then spoke again. "...succeed. He'll block you, block the transfer. Your creature will never work. Starfleet will know and all of this will be for nothing. _Nothing_."

Marcian looked over at him as if pleading for understanding. "This wasn't _my_ idea!" he screamed. "I didn't want anything to do with it!"

Turan muttered an obscenity and turned the dial up another notch. Spock lunged against the restraints, his body waging a witless, instinctive battle of its own to survive. One of the straps began to separate.

"My god," Marcian whispered, watching as the synthetic material started to unravel. "He's breaking it."

Releasing Kirk's arm, one of the guards moved to Spock's side, grasped his wrist and held it against the table. Turan's eyes darkened and another Klingon obscenity was spat into the air. The dial went up again.

It was too much. Kirk could sense the last of the Vulcan's shields begin to crumble into dust before the relentless, all-consuming assault. With every ounce of strength he had he tried desperately to shore up Spock's failing mind, to somehow deflect the demon away from him. But the scanner was simply too strong. And the Vulcan was simply too weak.

 _Spock!_ He shouted out the name, trying one last time to get through. The word bounced back at him, reverberating off the demon's hide, mocking him with his own utter helplessness. It brought with it the scent of the thing, a scent of horror, hopelessness, death. His own heartbreak and despair, mingling in with Spock's, weaving together into such a seamless tapestry that he was unable to tell where one ended and the other began.

The Klingon who remained at his side took a step away from him and pulled out his disrupter, aiming it at the center of his back. Clearly, the man anticipated a violent reaction, knew Kirk was reaching his limit. A good judge of character. If the captain had spared him a moment's thought he might almost have admired his skill.

But Kirk's attention was elsewhere. He sensed the man release his arm and move off, understood in the back of his mind the reason, but what he saw was something quite different.

He saw Turan suddenly turn back to him, pulling his attention away from his tortured friend, saw the malevolent, simian eyes glisten with a strange combination of frustration, rage and excitement. And Kirk suddenly understood something that he had not recognized before. Despite the awesome stakes in what they were doing, this was, quite simply, a game. The Klingon was toying with him even now, using Spock's pain to push _him_ to the limit of his control. In many ways, despite his intellect and training Turan was nothing but a Klingon savage, deriving pleasure from misery, abuse, debasement. Suffering for its own sake, having nothing whatsoever to do with the duplicate standing on that platform. The carefully thought-out plan, the months, years of plotting and preparation, the enormous potential for damage to the Federation had all been reduced to this. A simple war of nerves between two men. A cruel, sadistic Klingon game. Nothing more.

Slowly, his attention never straying from Kirk's face, Turan turned up the dial yet again.

"NO!" Despite himself, he couldn't hold back the shout. Turan wanted him to react, wanted to hear him grovel, beg for Spock's life even though both men knew that the plea would be useless. But he sensed that Spock was at the very limits of his control and could not survive another assault. He could feel his consciousness reel from the continual battering, knew that insanity lay only seconds away. And the shout came to his lips almost without conscious thought, one that was in many ways more tormented than the mental screams coming from his friend. The two Klingon guards began to laugh. "You got him now," one said.

Spock jerked spasmodically, making a last feeble effort to hold off the merciless attack, straining against the straps, against the man holding him down. The results were pitifully inadequate, the bonds, the Klingon holding him easily. Kirk could feel his terror as he lost his fight, as the beast ripped through the last barrier, shattering it into a thousand pieces, leaving his mind open and vulnerable, staring directly into the face of madness. And now very much alone.

"Look!" Marcian turned toward the platform. "Look!"

Turan swiveled his head around. A sudden silence descended over the room, the sound broken only by the Vulcan's gasping for breath.

As if in nightmarish slow-motion the duplicate's head began to move, lowering to brush against the chest, then raising to blindly face the ceiling. It leveled off, facing toward the men assembled before it and, slowly, weakly, the eyes began to open, the lids fluttering up and down for a moment before stabilizing on the spot directly before the platform. The lips twitched, the fingers moved, splayed out, then gathered together into a tight fist. The creature opened its mouth, but no sound came out.

"It's not enough," Turan hissed, his gaze returning to Kirk. "He still fights us, holds back." Reaching behind him, he turned the machine up to its highest setting. The duplicate visibly shuddered. Spock threw his head back and, for the first time since the nightmare had begun, he made a visible reaction, letting out a single, soul-wrenching cry into the quiet of the room.

The sound nearly killed him but with an almost superhuman effort the captain ignored it, knowing that his outburst of a moment before had been a mistake. Marcian was the weak link in the chain and such wild emotional behavior only served to increase the man's terror, made him harder to reach. Shutting Spock completely from his mind, he focusing all of his attention on the native, instinctively zeroing in on the man's most vulnerable point. "Marcian, listen to me," he implored. "You'll have to destroy his mind to complete the transfer. You won't simply be able to duplicate his thoughts the way you did his body. He won't let you. He's a Vulcan..."

Spock cried out again. Kirk felt the breath catch in his throat. They were running out of time. "He...he can control his mind, protect it in a way that you couldn't, I couldn't. If you think that he'll be able to get up off that table and walk out of here when you're done, you're deluding yourself. When you're finished, he'll be insane, Marcian. _Insane!_ "

The doctor shot a wild look at Turan, then stared down at Spock. His face was completely bloodless. The Vulcan continued to struggle weakly, his wrists stained green where the restraints had cut into the skin. The guard, apparently convinced that his strength was finally gone, released him and moved back to Kirk's side once again. Spock's arm was left partially freed, and, with a quaking gesture, he stretched out his hand in Marcian's direction as if knowing instinctively where his only hope lay, pleading soundlessly for help.

That final gesture was too much. Kirk could see it in the man's face. "He's a sentient being, Marcian. In the name of god, he's a sentient being!"

***

The doctor uttered a muffled cry. Stumbling to Turan's side he pushed him away from the control panel with surprising strength. Turning back, he hit a half dozen buttons and dials one after another. The computer began to slow. Spock collapsed against the table, his fingers dangling limply over the edge, his breath coming in huge, labored gasps.

"No!" Turan regained his balance and shoved him to one side, reaching for the controls again. "You won't stop us now, filthy sentimental fool!"

Marcian hesitated, saw the disrupter bulging like a tumor against the Klingon's hip. Without pausing to think, he grabbed it with both hands and pulled it away, aiming it at the center of the other man's face.

Turan froze, hand hovering an inch above the dial. For a second, his expression reflected nothing but amazement. Then an oily smile spread across his face. "Put it down, Doctor."

The disrupter started to shake, wavering back and forth in its aim. Kirk felt the guard holding him loosen his grip, distracted now, and reach for his belt. Marcian's eyes flashed over to them and for a second the captain was certain he was about to drop his weapon.

He never gave him the chance. Slamming a shoulder into the guard's chest, he sent him stumbling backward. Without a second's hesitation, he swung his other leg back and kicked the second one in the left knee, shattering the bone into a dozen pieces. The man screamed and fell to the floor.

His companion regained his balance and grabbed for his weapon at the same instant that Turan dove for Marcian. Racing forward, Kirk hit the guard with the full force of his body and, tangling his legs between the other man's longer ones before the Klingon had a chance to gain his footing, sent him tumbling to the floor. The guard reached out, trying to pull Kirk down with him, but he sidestepped the man's grasp and, taking careful, if hurried aim, kicked him in the side of the face, sending him straight into oblivion. Without missing a beat, he spun around and saw the other guard scrambling to reach the disrupter that lay on the floor beside him. The captain's boot caught him on the chin just as his fingers touched the handle. The Klingon fell against the floor without making a sound.

He turned back, his body tense, expecting Turan's disrupter to tear through him at any second.

But the man was gone, the space where he had stood a second before empty, the only trace of his vile presence a faint lingering odor reminiscent of charred wood.

Marcian stared blankly ahead, the disrupter dangling from his fingers. "I killed him," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I...I...." He looked up at Kirk. The weapon fell to the ground. "I killed him."

The doctor closed his eyes and began to sway back and forth. Kirk moved to his side. Marcian might be a reluctant co-conspirator, but he was hardly an innocent victim. The captain's sympathy went only so far. "Untie me," he ordered.

Marcian's eyes snapped open. He seemed frozen to the ground.

"I said _untie me_. If you want to pass out, do it afterward."

The doctor was quick to do as he was told. The ropes came free. Kirk moved immediately to Spock's side and unfastened the restraints, aware, with an inward shudder, that the duplicate was standing silently, following his motion with its eyes. As gently as possible, swearing at the adhesive that tore at Spock's skin, he pulled off the blindfold.

There was no reaction. None. Just the shallow rise and fall of Spock's chest as he breathed. Kirk tapped him lightly on the cheek. "Spock. Come on. Come on. Talk to me."

Slowly, the Vulcan's eyes fluttered open. For a moment he could see no sanity in them at all and his heart stopped. They closed again, the room deadly quiet. _Come on, Spock. Come on. Don't do this to me._

For an instant he thought he imagined it, the touch was so faint.

Then he looked down, saw Spock's fingers stretch out to touch his sleeve once more. Taking the hand in his own he brought it to his chest, his heart slamming against his ribs like a sledgehammer. _Thank god. Thank god_. "Are you all right?"

Spock was silent for a moment as he tried to gather his strength together. The captain waited patiently. "Yes," he said at last, opening his eyes once more. "Yes, I believe so."

The voice was weak, but the reply was rational and Kirk was grateful for the sound of it, feeble though it was. He put a finger against the Vulcan's lips. "You just lie still. You're still hooked up to this contraption. Don't move until I get it off."

Marcian stood silently at the head of the table, nervously shifting his weight from side to side. He opened his mouth, then shut it again when he realized he had no idea what to say.

Abruptly, the captain turned back to him. "How do I remove this thing?"

The man just stared at him, right at the moment quite incapable of doing anything else. The surge of adrenaline that had fueled his actions of a moment ago had totally dissipated and the entire scenario now took on an air of unreality, of disassociation. His mind felt like it was caught in some kind of fog, as if he were walking in a dream and everything around him consisted of mere shadows. His nerves were shot, his equilibrium tottering on the brink of total disarray. The fact that Kirk had recovered so quickly, had taken command of the situation so easily, left him quite stunned.

The captain's face looked like it was carved in granite. "Answer me. Now."

Marcian read the warning in his tone and self-preservation triumphed over emotional shock. After seeing the way Kirk dispatched those two monstrous Klingons, he had no wish to have the captain's anger turned against _him_. Gathering himself together he pressed several dials on the panel below the table, biting his lip when his quaking fingers hit the wrong ones. "There," he stammered, taking care to keep his gaze locked on the monitors. "One more and the probe will come loose." The final button was pushed. Almost immediately a soft, hissing sound came from within the control mechanism. Metal fingers relaxed their grip.

Slowly, checking constantly to be certain the infernal device had released him completely, Kirk lifted it away from Spock's face. He held it in his open hand, studying it for a moment. Marcian saw his jaw tighten, the veins in his neck begin to swell. With a sudden, violent motion, he threw the instrument against the far wall, shattering it into a dozen pieces.

Spock watched him silently, his eyes filled with sorrow. Kirk took a deep breath, bringing his emotions once again under control. Unconsciously, he began brushing the disordered bangs to one side, tracing out the bruises that the probe had left on the Vulcan's skin. "I know," he whispered, his voice strained. "I know. Most inefficient."

A moment of silence followed. Kirk glanced over at Marcian, the rage still lingering on his face. "Is this room under surveillance?"

The question startled the native. "What?" he asked, feeling vaguely stupid.

The captain gritted his teeth, for Spock's sake holding his temper at bay. "I said 'is this room under surveillance.' Are we safe in here for a few moments or can I expect Premier Ocarias' storm troopers to come barging in through that doorway any minute."

Understanding dawned in the man's eyes. "The room isn't monitored. No one can get in without clearing the security systems. The alarm will signal if anyone tries a forced entry."

Kirk nodded. "In that case," he said, turning back to Spock, "I think we can chance giving you a few minutes of rest before we get out of here."

The Vulcan's eyes seemed to look right through him. He should have known better than to try to pull such an obvious tactic. "We must go now," Spock replied, his tone as inflexible as a concrete wall. "I am able to travel."

_Like hell._

But Spock was right and they both knew it. Delaying here was dangerous. The Klingons knew where they were, undoubtedly had the coordinates for beamdown if necessary. And the thought of losing Spock again to those soulless bastards was something he preferred not to think about.

Reaching out without a word he clasped Spock's wrist, flinching despite himself at the sight of the lacerated flesh. "All right. We move. Here." He slid his other arm behind his back, helping him up to a sitting position, supporting him as he swayed dangerously to one side. Without thinking he eased Spock's head against his shoulder, cradling it with his open hand, feeling the emotions flow back and forth between them like an electrical current. He had experienced it many times before, had grown accustomed to it, learned to expect it. Just another of the many things, countless things, that Spock had brought into his life.

But that wasn't all he felt and glancing to the side he saw the duplicate watching them, its expression strangely blank, reflecting nothing at all. The sight sent a cold chill down his spine.

"Spock?" The unspoken question hung in the air between them. The Vulcan looked up, his eyes meeting those of his unnatural brother. "What do we do with...that?" He turned his attention back to Marcian. "Can it move? Can we take it with us? We just can't leave it here. The Klingons will come down to see why Turan hasn't made contact and they'll find it, kill it." _Dear god, Spock. It's like having **you** fall into their hands_. The fact that he could think of the creature in that way frightened him. Terrified him

Marcian studied the panel, then slowly shook his head. "It won't make much difference either way, I'm afraid. The transfer process was cut off before it was finished. The duplicate won't be able to survive."

For an instant, Kirk was certain that he saw a flash of fear in the creature's eyes. "Are you certain?"

Marcian walked to the platform and fiddled with the monitors. "Yes," he said, glancing back a moment later. "The feeders are still operating. If they stay connected it will live for another five or six hours maybe. No longer."

"And if they're shut off? If the equipment stops working?"

"The construct will die almost immediately."

Kirk felt his chest tighten. Spock sensed it, recognized the cause. Reaching out, he laid a hand gently on the captain's knee. "We cannot leave this machinery functional," he said softly. "If we do not survive to reach the Enterprise it is possible that the Klingons may yet be able to salvage their experiment and try again. We dare not take that chance. We must destroy it now while we can."

Kirk nodded. Spock was correct. He understood that and yet, looking up at the 'thing', an alien, manufactured creation, he found himself wanting desperately to keep it alive. It was, in a strange way, a part of Spock. Artificial perhaps, but still a part of him. And, as such, it deserved to live.

"Jim." Spock's voice was no louder than a whisper now. "I understand what you're feeling. I am not insensitive to it. But we must do this."

"I know." The knowledge did nothing to remove the pain. "I know. It's just that it looks so much like you." He shivered. "Damn it, Spock. It looks so much like you."

Pain and sorrow filtered through the link and he berated himself for his thoughtlessness, for seeing this only through his own eyes. For a Vulcan life was venerated above all else, no matter how unformed, unnatural. By its very essence it was sacred. For Spock to call for its destruction, despite his irrefutably logical arguments, must have been profoundly disturbing to him. The fact that the life doomed to end bore his own face making it even more so.

"I'm sorry," he said regretfully. "You stay here. I'll do it."

He rose to his feet, knowing that, behind him, Spock was sitting, hands folded, eyes closed, head bowed in silent meditation.

***

He approached the platform, the disrupter in one hand. The control panels stood lining the walls, their multicolored lights flashing and blinking in a continuous, asymmetrical rhythm. He kept his attention focused on them for a moment, not wanting to see what stood directly before him.

But the presence demanded his attention, his respect. For the few moments of life left to it. He owed it that much.

Slowly, almost painfully, he looked up into the face that he loved more than life itself. There was a strange, disquieting emptiness to the eyes, an emptiness that bespoke an unfinished spirit patterning an incomplete body. And yet the face, the face was perfect. When he looked at it a thousand memories flooded into his mind: Spock, weeping over the slaughtered children of an alien race, sharing the sorrow with their grieving mothers. Spock in the briefing room where he had gone to hide that day so many years ago, crying out the sorrow of his life, his repressed human feelings. Holding the hand of a dying woman on Benharia II, giving her comfort in the last moments of her life. Spock, the detached, unemotional scientist who couldn't bear to see suffering, pain, death.

Suddenly, without warning, the creature stretched out its arm, fingers reaching toward him. The gesture startled him and he backed away, painfully aware of the hurt spreading across the thing's face. _That_ , at least, had made the transference.

On impulse, he laid the disrupter on the floor and moved back to the platform. The duplicate's gaze followed him, the hand still held out in the air. The fingers stretched as far as they could go, long, beautiful Vulcan fingers, and the sight brought a sob to his throat. _Dear god, Spock. I don't know if I can do it._ Almost fearfully, he reached out and took the hand within his own.

 _Hot. Always so hot_. He studied the fingers, then looked up into the face, into those dark eyes, filled now with confusion and bewilderment. And just a trace of fear.

"If there were any other way, I'd..." He hesitated, knowing that the words he wanted to say would not come. The creature continued to watch him, a strange look coming over the alien/familiar face, a vague sense of comprehension, of understanding.

The look was shattering and he turned away, stepping back to pick up the disrupter once again. Swiveling around, he raising the weapon before him, pointing it at the control panel, his finger on the firing pin. The creature stood silently on the platform and, for an endless moment, he hesitated.

Closing his eyes, he pressed the trigger. A flash of brilliant white light filled the room, followed almost immediately by the sounds of hissing and popping as seared circuits shorted out against one another and he tensed, his breath caught in his throat, waiting for the creature's death scream.

It didn't come.

Opening his eyes, he looked up.

The duplicate was gone, the platform empty. Spinning around he saw Marcian standing to one side, the second disrupter in his hand. "I owed that to you, Captain," the man said simply.

The weapon fell to the floor. Marcian shuddered. "If we survive this, will you protect me later. Speak for me."

Kirk nodded. He understood the debt he now owed this man. "I will."

"Good." Marcian made a move toward the door. "Then I would suggest that we get out of here. Do you know where you're going to hide?"

Kirk's answer was immediate. "Yes."

"Can I make one request?"

Kirk waited.

"I'd like to make a stop, pick someone up to take with us, if it's all right with you." He glanced back, expecting Kirk to ask who it was. But he didn't. He merely nodded and, slipping the disrupter beneath his jacket, moved back to his friend's side. Sliding one arm around the Vulcan's waist, he helped him to his feet.

Together, the three men left the room in silence.

***

The street was quiet, the sidewalks deserted. The woman stood by the window, peering out into the emptiness. "Jeffrey," she muttered. "You're going to give your old mother a heart attack with those hours you keep. Haven't been to see me in nearly two weeks."

Suddenly three shapes appeared at the corner, circling around the edge of the building to walk in her direction and her heartbeat accelerated. Even from fifty feet away, her mother's eye recognized the peculiar stride of her son.

Moving quickly to the door she brushed the hair from her forehead, rearranging a hairpin or two in an unconscious gesture nearly four decades old. The cherry pie that she had baked eight days ago for her only child was stale now, although she had not thrown it away. She'd make him another if he could wait. It wouldn't take long. An hour if she hurried.

The doorbell rang. She released the lock without asking who it was. Waited in silence as the footsteps began to sound on the stairs outside. A moment later the knock came at the door.

She pulled it open. "Jeffrey," she cried, scurrying out into the hallway to grasp him in a fierce embrace. "You had me worried half to death! Where have you been?"

He made no answer. She released him and backed up, studying his thin, exhausted face. Her gaze shifted toward his two silent companions, her wrinkled brow creasing in concern and suspicion. Something was wrong. Her maternal instincts told her that loud and clear. And these two strangers figured right in the middle of it. She could sense it. Could feel it.

Peering intensely ahead, she scrutinized them both. Dressed in clothes that didn't quite fit, the men looked out of place somehow. One wore a hat pulled down low over his face and she never did trust men who wore hats. A prejudice that she had picked up during her adolescence. Didn't really knew where or why, nor much care for that matter. Men who wore hats were trying to hide something. She heard it a thousand times, believed it now as gospel.

And in this case, although she would never know it, the old woman was exactly right, but not for the reasons she suspected.

Lips compressed into a frown. "Are you in trouble, Jeffrey? What's you been doing, getting into some kind of trouble?"

Her son smiled, a sad thing with no joy in it. "Yeah. I'm afraid so." Reaching out, he touched her on the arm, his grip weak, his hand cold. "Come on. We have to get out of here."

She looked at him in confusion. "What do you mean, get out of here?"

He inclined his head toward the hallway. "We have to leave the building. Go outside."

She pulled herself up to her full height, an action that really ceased to have any effect as soon as her son outgrew her. "Go outside! That's the most damned fool thing I ever heard. I can't go out now. You know how I hate the cold...."

The smile faded to nothingness. "I'm in trouble, Mother. Serious trouble. And these men here are trying to help me. You're not safe where you are. We have to go somewhere and lay low until tomorrow when their ship comes in."

"Ship...lay low. I don't understand. What've you gotten yourself mixed up in? Where are we going?"

"To the subway station. We're going to ride the cars all night."

Her eyes widened. "Ride the cars all night! You must be joking. Have you been drinking that corsiam brandy again?"

He shook his head. "No, I...."

One of the strangers approached and spoke for the first time. "Mrs. Marcian," he said, his words clipped. "It is imperative that we go _now_."

There was something in the voice that demanded compliance. Without consciously thinking, she reached for her coat. "All right, all right, but this better be for real. If you're playing some trick on me, Jeffrey, I'll have your hide."

Pulling her coat over her shoulders, she zipped up the front and stepped out into the hallway. As she did so the taller man raised his head and she could see his face now, his eyes. There was pain reflected there, a pain that she didn't understand and yet one that seemed strangely familiar.

More carefully now she studied the other one. His eyes were different, larger, showing more life. But there was pain there, too. Deeper even, more intense. For some reason the look frightened her.

Grasping her son by the wrist, she steered him out ahead of the others. "What happened, Jeffrey?" she whispered.

His shoulders slumped and he suddenly seemed so young, young and frightened. "It's a long story, Mother."

He glanced at the strangers. The old woman followed his gaze, noting that the man who had spoken had slipped his arm around the other one's waist and was quite visibly holding him up.

Marcian looked down at her once again as they made their way toward the outer door and the harshness of a Jarsinian winter's night. "I'll explain it to you on the subway."

Together mother and son stepped out into the frigid air. The woman tugged her coat tightly around her, blinking her eyes against the cold. Turning back, she saw the strangers hesitate at the top of the stairs and speak softly to one another, their faces clearly lit now by a street light. The taller man reached up and, with a gentleness even she could see, ran his fingers against the cheek of his companion, wiping away what she assumed to be a tear, although whether it was caused by some inner sorrow or simply the result of the cold she was unable to tell.

The other one caught his hand, holding it within his own for a moment, an unfathomable expression on his face.

Then, straightening his back, he grasped his friend once more around the waist and helped him down the stairs, following them out into the darkness.


End file.
